


Indefinite Spaces

by anonymouslystuupid



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Conversion Disorder, Heavy Angst, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Numbness, Phobia of Darkness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape Aftermath, Rape Recovery, Rape Trauma Syndrome, Rape/Non-con Elements, Self-Harm, Touch Aversion, selective mutism
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-04-22 13:26:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 10
Words: 56,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4836968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anonymouslystuupid/pseuds/anonymouslystuupid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"For a horrifying moment Stiles regained a moment of clarity, his mind screaming, clamouring, clattering, ringing with all its defiance, with one last moment, as if somewhere deep in his subconscious, he knew this last straw would ruin him, would break him for good, would leave not a scar but a rupture in his body so bad it would no longer function-</p>
<p>His best friend was going to rape him, and then kill him."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impact

**Author's Note:**

> This work contains elements of non-con, and can be triggery. Please take utmost care of yourselves whilst reading. *provides warm chocolate and blankets*

* * *

  _The woods are lovely, dark and deep,_

_ But I have promises to keep,  _

_ And miles to go before I sleep,  _

_ And miles to go before I sleep._

 - Stopping By Woods On A Snowy Evening, Robert Frost -

* * *

**Two Days before The Incident**

The grip on his shoulder was tight, unyielding, as were the pair of pale green eyes affixed onto his own warm brown ones. A warning. Scott shrugged it off, casting his eyes away. He walked to the couch, sitting down stiffly. In response, Derek’s eyes sharpened, brows knitting together as he irritably relented. He proceeded to fold his arms across his chest, silent, waiting, his look expectant. After a few moments of silence, Scott spoke.

“I get it already, Derek,” Scott said under his breath, frowning. He pressed his hands together, as if wanting to grip onto something, to erase the inevitable conversation. He sighed, shoulders rising then falling again. “I get it, okay. It’s some wolf-cycle thing and it’s serious. I know.”

Derek clenched his jaw, the movement of it prominent against the shadows cast under his jawline, the bone creaking against clenched teeth. He closed his eyes, willing calm to himself.

“It. Is. Scott,” Derek growled slowly, almost drawing out the words, as if attempting to enunciate in front of a five-year old, annoyed, “It’s so serious, that a dangerous hormonal werewolf teenager can’t begin to _try_ to take it seriously.” Irritation wafted around them in disapproving waves. Scott shook his head silently, and gurgled internally in frustration. Derek was like his third mother sometimes. Apart from Melissa and Stiles, of course. It seemed like everyone was constantly getting on his back, for things he couldn’t control.

“I _get_ it,” Scott stressed, brown eyes flaring in frustration, hands rising up and slapping back down on the rough fabric of his jeans where he sat, “I’ve already made plans to send Allison to Stiles’ for that night, okay. With Lydia and the rest,” Scott put his head down, eyes looking to the ground, “She’ll be as safe as she can be.”

At this, Derek’s agitated demeanour subsided some, tension gently spooling away. He looked at Scott’s tense frame, the rigidness of his shoulders, the creased brows, like he was equally worried about the coming full moon as well. He had had a lot on his plate recently, what with the witches’ ritualistic hunt to interrupt and dispel, and the nameless Walkers to worry about. On top of all of that, he also had to worry about the coming Full Moon’s perigee. A tinge of sympathy momentarily flitted over Derek’s features. He looked to the edges of Scott’s increasingly hardened and battle-worn frame. It eerily echoed a version of his younger self.

Derek paused, then walked over to where Scott was seated, and took the space beside him, eyes heavy.

“One of the Moon’s 13 perigees is occurring on the Full Moon soon. It’s just…” Derek trailed off, eyes going blank as he faded a little into memory, “different. The heat cycle’s effects will be at its worst that night. It’s hard to swallow but your potent hormonal build will only create an additive effect. Everything will coalesce into a massive black hole, like how small puddles coalesce into a colossal pool of water: it’s dangerous, Scott.” At this, Scott’s warm eyes rose to meet his, tinged with worry, “And it’s your first, too. If you’re not careful, you’ll end up hurting the people you care about.”

Scott pressed his hands together even more firmly, eyes pained.

“I don’t want that,” he said.

“I know,” Derek replied, age-old warning, one warred from experience, ringing the edges of his eyes. “That’s why you have to remain isolated on that night, Scott. If anyone comes close to you at any point of time, I’m not sure if you’ll rip them apart, or worse…”

Scott’s face drained. “Or what?”

Derek’s expression fought an internal battle. He took in breath, and pushed it out again, slowly. This was a difficult topic to broach.

“You’re an alpha now, Scott.” Derek said, closing and opening his eyes, unveiling the ruby tinge of it. He looked into Scott’s brown eyes, pausing, waiting. At this, Scott blinked, willing the alpha to skim the surface of his eyes as well, the scarlet red equally taking over. Approval swirled in the darkened blood depths of Derek’s alpha orbs.

“It means you can take a mate,” Derek continued, hesitancy clouding his voice at the information he was revealing. “During the heating cycle, at least. If during the Moon’s perigee you-” he struggled with the words “if you happen to come across a living body, and instead of ripping it to shreds you…”

Scott’s eyes widened at the implication the pause suggested.

“…then you will have inadvertently form a mating bond. And that’s not good, Scott.” Derek finished.

Silence filled the air for seconds, before Derek cleared his throat, discomfort roiling deep in his gut. At least the message had been conveyed. He had survived this conversation, thank goodness.

He stood, reverting back to his usual demeanour of uncommitted, dismissive three-word conversations. Life suddenly seemed simpler now, and he was grateful for it. God damn stupid hormonal True Alpha teenagers who were entering heat for the first time and needed guidance. That was a first but most certainly the last.

He was walking away, when Scott’s voice sounded in the room.  “I won’t let myself hurt my friends. Or Allison,” Scott said, voice resolute and firm. At this, Derek turned around, eyes simmering with unspoken words.

_I know._

============0=============

**The Day of The Incident**

“Look, I’ve included all the dates for this years 13 perigees, see, and its 13 apogees,” Stiles rambled, eyes bright with excitement, hands scrambling over his notebook, fingers pointing over scribbles of writing, “Tonight, the moon will sweep to perigee – that is of course the moon's closest point to Earth in its orbit —at exactly at 1:46 am on the _Full Moon_. That’s when they’ll feel it the most. Yeah, hey, I'm guessing that’s also when hell blows over and everything goes nuts. Something will happen. I can _feel_ it in my bones-”

“Stiles,” Lydia said pointedly, slamming her locker shut as she turned to him, lips pursed and eyes equally bright. “You haven’t stopped talking for the past-” Lydia paused, glancing down at her pink phone lock screen, one that flashed 2:20 pm at her above her dog-decorated screensaver, “6.2 hours.” She smiled, eyes littered with tense irritation, “Would you please shut up now? Please? Maybe for the sake of my dissipating sanity, thank you. But oh wait,” she laughed, eyes almost manic from the burdens of a banshee, “I guess it’s already gone.”

Beside her, Allison laughed, eyes sparkling at Lydia's melodrama, “It’s fine, Lydia,” she assured, “It’s just the full moon that’s affecting you. The…” she bit her lip, dimples adorning the dips of her cheeks, “pedigee?”

Both startled dark brown and limpid green bore into her.

“Pe-Ri-Gee,” they both echoed simultaneously, tones admonishing and indignant. Equal faces of I-can’t-believe-you drilled into her, and Allison laughed, wading in amusement as she gripped her books tighter round her chest so they wouldn’t fall. Some things would never change.

Lydia flipped her head back to her front and away from Allison, ginger hair whipping the air. “Not that I care for your ability to enunciate nouns.” Her heels clicked loudly on the floor as the trio made their way from the lockers to the cafeteria. Stiles sniggered, grinning quietly in the background. _Stiles 1, Allison 0_. That is, until-

Lydia cast a look to Stiles, “Or, your inability to close your mouth.”

Stiles closed his mouth immediately, eyes feigning innocence, clever fingers zipping an imaginary zipper across his lips and throwing it away. _Nope, yeah, no more talking, no more talking at all_ , his expressions seem to convey. Lydia rolled her eyes. Honestly, the epitome of people she wouldn’t be hanging out with given the choice.

They sat round an empty rectangular table.  
“What’s a perigee?” Allison said the moment they seated themselves. Stiles stared open-mouthed at her.

“In english?” she continued, raising her brows, smiling.

“Are you kidding me! God, yeah, okay I did not just explain that. Perigees are basically the closest points to the earth, kinda like a thing that happens, you know?” Stiles licked his lips, a habitual motion naturally coming to him as he explained, “But tonight, it’s going to happen on a Full Moon. The dates are coinciding, just tonight. And of course in this stage the moon appears larger. Although if you just look at the moon in the sky without anything to compare it to then it wouldn’t look any different.”

“Exactly,” Lydia said, adding on, “interesting, isn’t it? That the size of the Moon to our eyes is a relative, comparable thing. Like our eyes can’t tell us exactitude.” She glanced at her nails, coated bright red. It suddenly seemed so odd that she would paint this shade of red… It seemed so dark, and almost disturbing. A thrill ran down her spine. Internally, she restocked, moving on to other distractions.

“I know the reason why the both of you are clinging to me today, especially you,” Lydia said, looking at Stiles, “It’s because both of you are missing the over-annoyingly-virtuous wereboy that skipped school today in an attempt to spare us the agony of hiding his red eyes, sharp fangs and claws in serious need of a decent pedicure.” Beside her, Allison’s brows were creasing _again_ in worry. “And yes, I may be rambling because I feel it too, that stupid moon phenomena that seems to press the moon into Earth and drive me to lunacy, sorry not sorry.”

She sighed, and as she stared at her nails, the ruby-red of it, she started to still.

Her bright viridescent green eyes drifted off into deeper thoughts: the moon, lunacy, the Full Moon’s Perigee. It bothered her. She could feel the Moon’s presence even now, in broad daylight, where it was nowhere to be seen. It skimmed the surface of her skin, prickled at her, pressed down from all sides, trapping her. She ached to breathe freely, but the ominous feeling refused to fade away. Instead, all it did was suffocate her even more as the day slowly descended towards nightfall. She could feel them; the thousand heartbeats thudding, awaiting the Moon’s unearthly glow to illuminate. The Weres, she now knew. They pounded ferociously at the gates, throats bared open to howl in anticipation of the opening hour, the doors to wildness and instincts and fangs and claws and darkness and heat, so much heat, smothering, choking, burning her alive. The smouldering coals were only beginning to spark, clashing against one another, catching onto the other, leaping, springing from the depths of a cold, black darkness, alighting under the paleness of a white-blue moonlight. Writhing bodies, uncontrolled passion, so much blood was in the air, she could smell it, it was smeared all over her, inviting her, calling her — _“Lydia… Lydia… join us… join…”_ —, but she hated it, it was boiling hot, like a lava she dared not fall into, the edge of an unbearable precipice and she was falling, she was screaming-

“LYDIA!” Stiles was shouting in her ear, hands clenched around her shoulders, shaking. She blinked her eyes open, peering into a pale face adorning worried, agitated, wild brown eyes. She couldn’t think. All she could feel was the acute grip on her skin, pulling her back from an edge she was leaning towards. Perspiration coated her skin, casting a sheen of sweat. Her pupils were blown wide with fear, like it had consumed her from the inside-out, worming its way through her head. Her hands couldn’t stop trembling. Her heart banged loudly in her chest.

Seeing her awake and lucid, Stiles reached out to wrap his arms around her, placing her head on his shoulder.

“Oh my god, Lydia,” he rasped, voice unsteady, “you scared me. You really scared me.” He pressed her tight against his heaving frame, “Oh my god.” He rocked with her comfortingly, eyes clenched tight. Lydia blinked, eyes still slightly glazed over from the terrifying vision.

Footsteps sounded as Allison burst in through the doors of the sickbay. “I got it, I got it,” she panted, inhaler in hand. Seeing Lydia lucid she rushed over, assessing.

“Lydia, are you okay?”

Lydia blew out a deep, shaky breath. “Yeah. Don’t worry, I’m okay.” She pressed her lips together. “You can let go of me now, Stiles, if not it’s going to become increasingly uncomfortable in about, oh I don’t know, 7 seconds," she said, voice still shaky.

Stiles reluctantly let go, moving slowly, “You sure?”

Green eyes affixed on worried ones. “Yes. It’s just… the me being “Something” again, as per usual.” She cast her eyes down, “Don’t worry, Stiles.”

Stiles shrugged, trying to play off the genuine worry from his features, still obviously shaken. He stepped back from the medicinal bed, putting space between them again. He conceded in standing awkwardly to the side, a few feet away, giving Allison the space to rush in to wrap arms around Lydia.  
 “Okay, apart from the averted not-crisis, I’ve had a vision,” Lydia said aloud, slowly, letting the implications of her words seep in. Two heads perked up at this.

Lydia laughed darkly under her breath.

“And it’s not good.”

============0=============

“Is that why Scott insisted on you two staying at the my dad’s place tonight?” Stiles said, “Sheriff and all, right? Considering that the town’s going to be swamped with partially deformed rabid half-wolves and a premonition of potentially disturbing bloodshed?”

The trio sat around on the medical bay’s beds. The vision hadn’t been comforting, or tinged with a least bit ounce of clarity, to say the least. Which was, of course, _always_ comforting, Stiles thought to himself. And he was worried. For Scott, his best friend, his father, his friends, or maybe even for the general welfare of the the entire human populace of Beacon Hills. Yes, as usual, everything was going fantastic.

In short, Lydia’s premonition invited nothing but a clear warning that something was going to happen tonight, right under their noses, and most likely to their loved ones. But how? And who? Stiles shook his head, trapping his head with both hands, a reflexive and comforting mechanism. He indulged in it, willing the calm through his veins. He attempted to slow his breathing. With the masses of roiling bodies, hints of flames, fire, and overall things-are-going-to-shit omens, things were bleak on the horizon. Stiles licked his lips, his nervous tick kicking back in as pressure dampened his heart. At times like this he wished he could see his dad, let his father, his rock, gather him up in his arms, and _squeeze_.

Instead, Stiles squeezed his eyes close, staring at the back of his eyelids. He was okay. Everything was going to be okay.

“We have to do something,” Allison said, hands already reaching to her back to grip something, momentarily forgetting her bow wasn’t readily by her side. All she held was the ghost of her bow, and upon realising that, she brought her hands together in her front, becoming increasingly jittery.

“What do we do?” Lydia whispered, eyes wide, lip still shaking from her vision, “In case no one noticed, we haven’t got a clue what anything means yet. All we’ve got is that something is going to happen tonight. That’s literally it.” The panic seeping into her voice covered her weak attempt at sarcasm. Stiles bit his lip at that, opening his eyes, watching her face. She was worried, too.

“I’ll watch Scott, tonight,” Allison said, resolute, eyes meeting two surprised ones.

Lydia blinked. And blinked, again. “Uh, no, Allison. You absolutely won’t.”

Allison’s eyes flashed, “Yes, I will, Lydia. If something is going to happen tonight, I’ll be there.”

“Not you,” Stiles said, eyes hooded. He looked up. “Me.”

Allison looked ready to argue, eyes swirling with a firmness Argent blood conferred her. They flashed, like lightning streaking across looming skies before the clap of a thunder. Stiles would have flinched if Scott had not been the object in the equation.

“He’s not wrong, Allison,” Lydia said quietly, eyes looking into the distance, watered over with residual tears from before, her face gaunt and pale; burdened. “But I’m not saying he’s right, too. Look, I’m just saying it makes sense. The other Weres will be busy with their own Moon-time to deal with, and no one apart from Stiles has seen Scott through his Moons before.” She pursed her lips, scarlet-red lipstick warring against the wan, frail texture of her skin, “Honestly, Scott’s heart rates can flood stock markets with the rate it soars when he sees you. I just don’t see how it can turn out okay with you there to ignite the engine. No oil to a fire, right?”

Allison quietened, thinking.

“I’ll watch Derek, then,” she finally said, then looked to Stiles, who had been quiet, “Use mountain ash if things get out of hand, okay? Scott’s has good control, but tonight things may get messy. I’ll monitor Derek and his protégé werewolf children.”

Stiles nodded.

“And don’t tell werewolves for as long as you can, too,” Lydia reminded, tone lighter now that a plan had been formed. Two pairs of confused faces gazed at her. “Uh, yeah, Lydia, I think that may probably be the worst thing to not do. For once,” Stiles said.

In response she rolled her eyes blatantly, indulging in the normalcy. It soothed at her frayed nerves. Stupidity had its undeniable charm, sometimes.

“Well…” Lydia pursed her ruby lips, “If you tell them, they’re not gonna _let_ you do it, right?”

She blinked, the _obviously_ hinted with her tone.

Allison sighed. It was going to be a long day, and an even longer night.

============0=============

They planned it out meticulously, but it wasn’t a very complicated plan. Stiles would put a Mountain Ash circle around the McCall household, just in case. Melissa was already staying the night at the Sheriff’s as originally planned, so the house would be empty, and safe. All Stiles had to do was make sure Scott made it through the night alive, with no other creatures making it past the Mountain Ash when the werewolf was in a vulnerable state. There. That’s it: keep bad things out to make sure Scott was safe. Bam. Simple. Easy, even.

Stiles liked the plan. It was a human, or at least, a more humanly, thing that he could do for his best friend. Also, Allison, the more legitimate fighter slash kind of badass werewolf hunter, would be handling the watch-over of Derek and his newly formed pack. Isaac, Erica and Boyd were still partially-uncontrolled wildcards, after all, and Stiles doubted he could handle them. Everything was going sweepingly well. Yes, they got this.

By this time, the full moon had barely risen. He parked his jeep by the side of the McCall household, and listened intently for the jingle of the silver chains he had brought Scott almost a year ago, now. There was no sound, except for the shivering of his lungs, and his raspy breaths. He rubbed his hands together, pooling heat to his palms, and peered to the bright Moon hanging, almost luminous, in the sky. It starkly contrasted the darkness of the night.

Slowly, he treaded, footsteps as silent as he could make them, to the front door.

He would have entered through the window, but he realised Scott, if he had been unable to suppress the wolf in him, would have probably chained himself to the pipes _near_ the window. And Stiles wouldn’t have to accidentally become werewolf meal just because he were careless. “Chomped by best friend werewolf while entering through window instead of front door,” his grave would sadly read. He grinned to himself, snorted mentally. The tales he could tell, honestly.

He slipped the key into the lock slowly, pausing and physically wincing in between creaks and turning locks. In the quiet of the night, the sounds seemingly reverberated, echoing tenfold. Finally, gulping through the flip-flopping and churning of his intestinal tract, the door stood ajar. He licked his lips nervously, palms beginning to perspire. The chill of the night was creeping along his skin, blowing goosebumps on it. He shuddered.  
He crept through the door, eyes blinking furiously in the darkened house, adjusting.

BANG-

The door suddenly slammed shut behind him. He jumped three feet in the air, turning around, heart banging, eyes wild. His hands were drowning with perspiration. The house he had come to know so well was becoming increasingly terrifying, in the hollow glow of the moonlight.

_It must have been the wind_ , he thought, calming himself, rubbing his palms together. His legs were as stiff as boards, jesus. He looked around warily again, but the darkness was not helping his fears any. The shadows looked like something was ready to pounce on him. His breathing was loud and terrified in the darkness.

He grit his teeth, and crept up the stairs, stupid sneakers creaking with every step he took. This was stupid, he thought, he was just visiting a friend, that was all. There was nothing to fear. He had chained Scott up himself a few times, even.

Determined, he rid himself of all hesitation and promptly made the last few steps up the stairs and into Scott’s room. His steps thudded all the way in the room, which was open and…

and…

empty…?

Stiles blinked in the darkness, confusion and fear clouding his heart. The first thought that leapt into his head was Scott in danger. His heart was thudding a million miles a minute, almost threatening to collapse at the scattered pieces of silver chains, all over the floor, splattered with splashes of intermittent blood. Then, the second thought hit: maybe _he_ was in danger.

Outside the window, the full moon glared loudly, scalding, almost mocking, high in the sky. Stiles couldn’t breathe.

A low growl was filling the room, vibrating through his very bones, grating at his ears, and all his brain was screaming at him was: RUN, but his legs were mere stone and lead, rooted onto the wooden boards of the house, rigid as a freaking wall. Locked in place, battling between vomiting his digestive system from the depths of his throat and scraping dry his vocal folds for the rest of eternity, he merely resolved to clenching his fists tightly to his sides, and staying as still as he could manage. Which wasn’t very still at all.

Stiles licked his lips, trying for speech, his lifeline.

“H-Hey Scotty,” he rasped, throat drier than a desert island that had been undergoing a fifty-year draught. Sandpaper was all he tasted, his flight mechanism attempting to kick in but failing. Just then, in the darkness, two glowing red eyes.

Stiles internally whimpered, fear gripping.

“Stiles…” Scott rumbled, his True Alpha voice carrying through, reverberating against the walls of the room. Stiles flinched at the texture of his voice. It was… different, somehow. Smooth. Like a predator’s lidded gaze in a hunt, before it dove in for the kill. Like Scott was revelling in his fear, lapping it up. Stiles swallowed, casting his gaze down to the floorboards. Things were off-kilter, the air tasted wrong, tasted wild and feral, sparking at nothing he could see under the eye of the Full Moon.

Scott stepped out from the shadows, face already deformed into that of a wolf’s eyes lidded and a frightening scarlet, claws longer than he had ever seen, razor-like. But his eyes…

Red. A wild, uncontrollable thing. An apex predator, slinking in the darkness, ready to bite through the feeble neck of its prey. The air around him was alive, scintillations of diamond-hard light sparking off against each other, building up the smell of the blood on the floor, like it was a living breathing thing. The thing before wasn’t Scott anymore, it was a werewolf, a creature of night, of instinct. Stiles closed his eyes. This was a horrible way to go.

Scott cocked his head to the side, eyes glinting, grin widening. Stiles shuddered at the un-Scott-like behaviour, at the way Scott looked at him like he was meat.

“Scott, please, listen to me-”

“You smell… heavenly…” Scott rumbled, eyes far and unseeing, a long tongue darting out to press against his terrifying canines as he stalked forward. Stiles’ eyes widened, and he pressed his lips together, forehead glistening with fear-induced perspiration. His pocket. Shit how could he forget, his pocket had some mountain ash left, no more than scrapes that when pooled together would be the size of his pinky, but enough to hurl at Scott and then to run the hell away and out of the Mountain Ash circle.

It was enough.

“Uh, yeah. S-So you might maybe wanna come closer?” Stiles managed to say, fingers trembling, hand in his pocket with the meagre mountain ash powder.

Scott’s smile widened, flashing two sets of fangs as his eyes sparked wildly. He approached slowly.

_That’s it, buddy. Come on. Okay… Okay…_ Scott was standing close to him, now, almost playing out the moment in some sick, twisted manner, like he was enjoying it. Stiles hated to do this, to hurt him, but he’d apologise later, when he made it out of this ordeal alive.

NOW.

Stiles grit his teeth and whipped out the ash-

GNNNSH-

An Alpha hand gripped his wrist, crushing bone. Time pulsed before his eyes, and his breathing slowed. Everything happened in slow motion after that, like his little time left was extended to elongate the pain, the agony of being killed by your best friend. A weight slammed into him, and he crashed to the floor, knocking his head against a bed frame corner. Air was knocked out of him, leaving him in a gasp. His vision swirled in faded greys, like darkness had diluted his world.

Above him, Scott was still grinning, eyes luminescent. He bent over Stiles, caging him, snapping teeth at him. Stiles prayed he would slip into unconsciousness, that he would fade out before he was ripped apart.

Scott leant down, inhaling in the scent of Stiles’ neck, growling low and pleased in his throat.

“Of course I’ll come closer, Stiles…” Scott dragged out his name, rumbling, breath sending skitters through his heart. Even almost concussed, he was still afraid. Still terrified. In fact, too fearful to close his eyes, dreading it would be his last. Above him, Scott grinning wildly, body leaning over his, like he was about to consume him. Stiles thought about his dad, and he didn’t want to die.

Scott lapped at the base of Stiles’ throat, a hint of pointed razor-teeth inducing Stiles’ shiver, and suddenly he bit down at the base of his shoulder, all the way through skin. Stiles jerked, not even managing to shout as his muddled mind continued to reel from both shock and impact. He couldn’t even feel his whole right arm, the one with the broken wrist. The air was chilly, but Scott was burning, his skin like flames, like lava, pressed against him, smearing his blood all over the ball of his shoulder, and down his neck, his left arm. He noticed the little things: the wooden floorboards his back was lying against, old, hardened and creaky with age, the blankness of the ceiling, its wide expanse lonely and haunting, the blackened grills of the window, the plain wood chips of the cardboard against the four walls. Little things.

Suddenly the air was colder. Scott had-

Stiles blinked, still numb. Scott had… removed his shirt? He was still blinking slowly at that when Scott pressed lips against his own, and was rolling hips to rut against his unmoving body. A cold, numbing rage seeped into his blood.

What the hell-

Clashes of pointed teeth gnashed against his gums, and a tongue was pressing tightly, roiling around madly, lust-riddled. His mouth was bleeding freely now, gushing out spools of blood as Scott lapped it up in a frenzy, like it was insanely enticing to him.

Stiles rode the fresh wave of pain through his mutilated mouth, eyes watering, left hand coming up to push against the wilding against him, finally responding but still helplessly human. A grip immediately descended threateningly on his left wrist, halting it, and Stiles stilled, eyes blown wide with fear, even into the sickening mock of a kiss. His right wrist was already broken.

The creature lifted from his face, lapping at the trails of blood from the cuts in Stiles’ mouth left on his lips.  
 “Stiles… Fuck. You smell so good, Stiles.” It was deep growling and lust-addled, eyes intensifying to a burning darker blood-red. The creature was rutting against him now, letting go of his left wrist, ripping Stiles remaining clothes apart, removing the fabric-

Stiles’ eyes watered, trailing down the sides of his face. He was so terrified he could barely move, let alone react. Nothing was getting through. The cold numbness was spreading through his whole body, and his breath hitched wetly with each inhale, like he was crying. Was he crying?

The Alpha had removed the only protection Stiles had against him, leaving him vulnerable and shivering. Hands trailed down his abdomen, down to the back of his thighs, in a mock caress. Stiles stared into the creature’s eyes, and he could not see any human left.

The hands pushed Stiles’ thighs forwards, against his stomach, and the creature left a trail of bloodied bites along the inner sides of his thighs, eyes never leaving his. Stiles sobbed, wrecked, eyes still disbelieving, still shell-shocked. His left hand twitched in protest, and he had lost his voice entirely.

The bites were deep, and for the last bite that was left on his skin, a mound of flesh was chewed off with the canines, like Stiles was a meal to be chewed through, after it had been savoured thoroughly. Stiles choked at the sight, only adrenaline flooding his sense, never pain, not yet, still in shock, still unable to process anything but the sight before him, the motions. He watched as the thing in front of him chewed through his bitten off flesh thoroughly, chewing, the sounds reaching into his ears, and his eyes latched on the streaming blood soaking his thighs through, hot and dripping onto the floorboards, and he couldn’t even scream-

It was just a nightmare, his brain soothed at him, uncomprehending of the visuals it was being fed by his eyes, everything would be back to normal. It was a bad dream, a vividly horrifying thing that would be forgotten in hours, right? Right?

He was trembling, all over, tears still leaking out of his eyes. Then he felt it. That thing, aligning at his-

For a horrifying moment Stiles regained a moment of clarity, his mind screaming, clamouring, clattering, ringing with all its defiance, with one last moment, as if somewhere deep in his subconscious, he knew this last straw would ruin him, would break him for good, would leave not a scar but a rupture in his body so bad it would no longer function, that yes, yes of course this whole time-

His best friend was going to rape him, and then kill him.

“NO-” he screamed, left hand struggling, hitting nothing but hardened skin. For a few seconds, the blood-soaked eyes that leered into his own ones never left, stayed on, deliberately holding the gaze, as he clenched on the moist body below him in a vice grip, grinned, and-

thrust his hips forward, _spearing_ through the malleable human body-

Stiles screamed, screamed and screamed, with all his might, his voice finally surfacing in loud, wet, grating screams, arms jerking and spasming on the floor, eyes blurred with a salty tsunami that burned through and through. He screamed, continued screaming so that the sounds of skin slapping against skin wouldn’t — couldn’t — enter his ears, couldn’t penetrate his heart. He was bleeding freely now, arms hitting with all his might, his body jerking wildly each time he was ripped apart afresh. Pleas escaped his lips in chants in between thrusts, like a pole had been shoved into his body, digging at his intestines, searing him apart.

“P-please… please… I beg y-you…” he was now rasping, crazed strings of begging pleas littering the wooden floors, the blazing blood red eyes that glowed against his bloodied skin, his hands scrapping helplessly on the floor, nails catching onto wood splints, but he was numb to that pain.

“Yes… Yes, Stiles… Perfect… Perfect, my Stiles, my mate. You’re beautiful, Stiles…” The Alpha was reaching forward to latch onto his neck, nipping and biting, coaxing more blood out from his wound, lapping that up. “You smell perfect, perfect… Mine now. All mine, now…” He reached down to bite him again, as if all the other bites were not enough, never enough, to taint all that unmarred skin a beautiful red. In minutes, panic and feeling slowly spooled away, Stiles feeling deadened again, as if his coping mechanism had kicked in again to save his sanity, to save him from the pain. He latched onto the small things, like how he was being bitten again, and that it was an Alpha, the nicks of teeth in his flesh, the blood pulsing upwards against the surface of the wound, almost spurting. It suddenly seemed like something should have clicked, something about a Bite, but he was too far away to care, his throat already raw from screaming, his vision blurring, the numbness returning, the calm returning. He felt like something had been lost, something important, a part of himself that had been treasured, cherished, something he held integral to his sense of self.

That was gone, now.

He couldn’t bring himself to care. He lay still even as The Alpha spilled, and then pulled out, even as he heard odd footsteps rising from the stairs, like other people had come. Strange, that somehow long trails of light — flashlights? — were spinning madly across the room, and there was so much sound, so much blaring, like there was a fight, and he was moving, —being moved?— the floor underneath him also moving, and more hands were on him, and his vision blackened slowly, fading, but in his brain, someone couldn’t stop screaming.

============0=============

He heard sounds, first. Voices, muddled, rippling. Inside his head, curled up in a corner, he lifted his eyes and willed himself not to wake, not yet. It was important, somehow, that he should never wake up, that if he did, something terrible would happen. In his mind-space, a blank canvas, he brought his knees up, curling his arms around them, hugging his legs to himself. It felt safer this way, like he was protecting his chest. It soothed him.

He looked around. The whiteness was soothing, inviting, and he truly believed he could live here forever. It was safe, it was warm, it was white, lights covering every corner, even the nooks and crannies. It was bright and pure, and it whispered comfort to him, wrapped him up in equally soft, white blankets and urged him to curl up into his — suddenly — favourite fetal position. He smiled at the brightness of the light on his face, at the shining sunlight. It was perfect.

Then suddenly he heard a voice speaking to him:

“Stiles… please. Please wake up,” the voice was muffled, like it had to pass through muddled layers to reach this place, this sanctuary. Stiles tilted his head at the oddly familiar voice. He tapped his chin, brows creasing.

It sounded like someone he knew.

“Don’t you dare put me through this again, son. Not after Claudia.”

Stiles stared into the pale surroundings, thinking over the voice. Dazed, he blinked slowly, curled up in warmth. A warmth he didn’t have to leave for a long, long time.

Maybe even for eternity.

He smiled, but something wet was streaming down his face, like something was faulty, and was leaking.  
 He blinked rapidly, and the wetness streamed even more quickly down his cheeks, staining his shirt. Curious, he looked at the fabric of his shirt — even that was a soothing bright white — peering at the odd substance. Oh? It was clear and pure, like water. He stopped blinking, but as soon as he did that, his eyes blurred over with the substance, obscuring his vision.

He rubbed at his eyes with his hands. He felt like the more he ignored the wet substance blurring his eyes, the larger the hole in his heart was forming, like something else was emptying its contents: important contents.

In the end, he resorted to closing his eyes, and then reached into himself.

“Stiles. We’re a unit, remember? Ever since your mother left us, it’s always been us, huh?” The voice was rasping wetly, exhausted, drained, like it had no more life left to give, to offer. At this, Stiles opened his eyes again, listening to the muffled voice trailing soft, lilting tendrils into his ears, like it was begging him to listen. So Stiles listened.

“‘Us against the world’, didn’t you use to say?” The voice trailed into silent huffs of quiet laughter, saddened shadows of what true laughs were like. “You were always so brave, Stiles, even when your mother died. Even when so many things happened, after. You were always so _brave_.” The voice cracked on the last word, voice clouding over, gasping wetly, hotly, like it was breaking, the tenuous taut string finally snapping. The wet substance was flowing wildly down his face now, down his cheeks, like he was somehow physically responding to the voice, even as he was mentally blocked off from it. He blinked rapidly, confused, the substance pooling in his shirt, twisting his heart like it should wrench an emotive response from him.

It didn’t.

============0=============

It continued for hours before he noticed it. The voice was endless, and the pools of the substance was filling up the room, would drown him if this continued. He blinked, and more fell out, like a desperate something screaming at him to do something about the voice. He couldn’t understand what was happening. The room was shrinking now, as the voice rambled on about senseless things, the tears reaching levels so high he could no longer breathe.

And soon he choked, drowning in the substance, limbs flailing wildly. The struggle was entirely senseless to him, completely absurd that he physically struggled against a pool of substance welling from his eyes, but his physical mechanism kicked in anyway, filling in the gaps of his mind. A sense of loss nicking at him for losing this beautiful white room.

The substance entered his lungs, and his eyes opened.


	2. Void

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Any medical shmuck in this chapter is adapted from personal experience, please take it with a pinch of salt. Also, we will enter Stiles' (extremely) fractured headspace, so I'm stressing: please take very, very good care of yourselves while reading. Once again, thank you all so much for all the support, kudos, comments and everything in between. They all give me fuel to write and share. Much love. *gives out warm pillows and hot cocoa for the difficult chapter ahead*

* * *

  _Darkness settles on roofs and walls,_

_ But the sea, the sea in the darkness calls; _

_ The little waves, with their soft, white hands  _

_ Efface the footprints in the sands, _

_ And the tide rises, the tide falls. _

 - The Tide Rises, The Tide Falls, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow-

* * *

 “Stiles!” was the first thing he heard when he woke up, gasping for air. 

He flailed madly, heart banging, eyes unseeing as he drowned. He couldn’t breathe. Could barely feel anything except the water entering his lungs, filling up the space there, latching onto the walls.  

Hands pressed down onto his chest as he struggled, and a sharp prick nicked his arm, before his heart slowed down to a false semblance of calm. He could see things now: the white ceiling, faces above him —a sharp flash of something at the feeling of people, of someone _peering down_ at him as he lay helpless, immobile—, the green hospital curtains. Could even feel things: the blanket, the bed underneath his back, needles in his arms, his eyes, unblinking.

“Stiles,” the man beside him was repeating. Stiles slowly turned his head towards him, eyes glazed over with sedatives. The voice was so familiar, and he recognised somewhere deep in his heart that the voice, the man, mattered to him more than he could ever express, that he had come back from that safe, white place for him. Stiles coughed softly, head ringing. 

_Dad._

The word came back in him in fractured images and moving pictures, in the crinkles of the man’s eyes and forehead, to the warm pats and hugs against Stiles’ own smaller frame. From the hearty laughter of ages past, an animated man adorned with dreams and hope, to even the subdued, smaller echo of that, after someone important to them had left, too suddenly—

_Mom._

The word was a whisper in his ear. Stiles closed his eyes, distracting himself. Something in him urged him to avoid this, avoid confronting this, at least not yet, not until he was ready, not so fallen apart. He tracked on, detracting from the dangerous train of thought. 

He looked at the man by his bedside: the crinkled frown, the sore and burdened frame, the tear tracks down his face, the warm, trembling hands. Stiles opened his mouth—

“(Dad.)” 

He tried to say, mouth opening, tongue moving to form the words, the old man before him frail but expectant, and then, nothing.

Nothing came out. 

Stiles opened his mouth, tried again. His father hovered over him, afraid to crowd but wanting to draw closer. No sound made it past his throat. Stiles could see it, the horror, forming on this father’s face, the realisation that Stiles was trying to speak, but couldn’t. Like a formation of the nightmare that had not ended, and it was only beginning. 

Stiles closed his eyes, tasting sandpaper. His throat hurt. 

Suddenly, doctors were rushing to his bedside, speaking to him all at once, loud and blaring. Stiles winced visibly, and many redrew, talking to his dad in rushed whispers instead, in frowns and cluttered speech. Stiles closed his eyes, retreating back into his shell, shielding away from the noises, the hurts, the throbbing.

============0=============

The next time he opened his eyes, it was night. It loomed, and fear blossomed rapidly, building. He didn’t even hesitate, just acted on impulse, instinct driving adrenaline through his veins, like all that was happening was that he had touched scalding hot water, and his body was blaring at him to _getaway_ , to _removehisfuckinghand_ —

HE WAS SCREAMING — so loud his own ears were ringing, his hands were shaking from the force of it, the blow of his fear, rampaging through his blood, his head — 

and he didn’t stop until the lights were on.

============0=============

The next time he woke up, daylight had broke, and his father never left his side. Stiles looked at him, took in the exhausted features, the despairing eyes. Stiles only felt numb.

That day, his father had to leave for work momentarily — he was still the Sheriff, after all —, but Stiles learned that apart from that, all his father’s time was spent here, at the hospital bed, with his insane son. 

When the Sheriff left, Stiles also met his second visitor.

The second visitor crept in from the window, footsteps silent. He grabbed the chair his father had been seated in for countless days, weeks, (months?), and sat in it. He didn’t say a thing. He just sat in it, like he had belonged to the furniture for the last century.

Stiles looked at the hulking figure, the familiar neutral, seemingly unfeeling features. Then he looked away, and treated him like furniture. It was easier, this way. 

Derek seemed to think so, too.

============0=============

A sea of breath, echoes, murmurs, voices, enveloping and wrapping hands around him, swallowing, engulfing. It was a faceless crowd of diverse forms, creeping on the edges where the dark met the blinding lights beyond the smooth platform of the stage. He was so exposed, flesh naked and bare, fingers, long and graceful, trembling. Seated on the floor, eyes fluttering to the floor; a perfect prim-picture of a puppet doll, hung limply from elongated steel-wire meshes that dug furrows into the soft flesh of his skin, into the frost of his lungs. 

He had never felt so small.

============0=============

When he woke up this time, it was night, but the lights were switched on. He looked around. It seemed like there was now an unspoken rule that the lights were to be permanently switched on for the duration of the night. Stiles blinked. He felt nothing.

His father was asleep on the small couch Stiles guessed the nurses had lay out for him opposite his patient bed. That way he could sleep better as he watched, day and night, over his son. 

The son that could only scream.

He looked to his side, to the breathing thing there, eyes watching him. The furniture was acting up again, like it was alive. Stiles breathed steadily, like there was simply nothing there. He stared openly, his eyes unmoving, into Derek’s. He felt nothing.

Derek didn’t shift his gaze, didn’t even twitch. He just gazed back into his eyes, and blended into furniture.

After minutes, Stiles looked away, blinking. 

He still felt nothing. 

============0=============

On day eight after he first opened his eyes, his father had asked him:

“Would you mind more people coming?”

His glance was askance as he faced out the window, trying to act casually, as if he was commenting on the weather. These words were the first words he had spoken to Stiles apart from his name. But all he could do had been to stare at his father, gaze numb like he didn’t understand. 

He didn’t reply.

He honestly hadn’t understood the question.

============0=============

A pain like no other gripped him. Pale, slender hands clenched into the lined bedsheets, his body writhing wildly. The pain spread, like a disease, he thought, through the entirety of his being; a wildfire uncontrolled, a wildfire scorching his pieces to ash. 

He remembered a scream, his scream, blaring loudly against the banging of his heart. A sound so shrill and pained and weak, piercing into a smoky dark form that was hunched in front of him. A shifting, wrapped form of threads and unseen waded messes; a silence punched by the softness of its heavy breaths. 

Two blood-red orbs.

He closed his eyes, watching the red-black behind his eyelids, recalling his own hand, trembling, afraid, reaching out into the darkness, into the being and that pair of eyes watching him. 

Then a searing scalding flame-

He had screamed, echoes of its agony rebounding against the walls of the non-place. The creature, the shadow form, cringed, retreated, shrunk away, fading. 

And then darkness had engulfed him, its vastness pressing against the smallness of his skin, of his body, crushing. 

============0=============

He counted eleven more days before the third visitor came, this time officially, unlike his furniture. She was a mess of noise and emotions, with the wet substance streaming down her face after a few minutes of attempted stoicism. He glanced curiously at her and didn’t move. Her substance trailed onto the neat napkin she whipped out, and she wouldn’t stop saying words.

A blubbering mess of “I’m so sorry, Stiles, I should have known—“ or “It’s all my fault, Stiles, I did this. I told you to do it.” Stiles reached out, hand stretching. The girl paused, eyes wide, surprise-shock coating her features. She stilled. Stiles took the chance to slowly take hold of the napkin and wipe the substance away from her clear green eyes. He didn’t why that felt important to him, but it did.

She wouldn’t stop crying after that.

============0=============

The taste, bitter, cold-frozen; spikes travelling in waves along the edges of his tongue, down his throat, burning and scalding. Bitter, as was sour, vile. Disgust, revulsion, like threads that spread steely fingers into his gut, into flames. A welling disgust for the porcelain-white of his skin, stained dirty and black beneath the pristine smoothness, like rust underneath coated drains. His mind cast shadows, faded ungraspable things, long and stretched over his small form, into memories, through the rents of their fabric. He remembered times where hands trailed down his sides, vulnerable lines that were grabbed and handled so roughly, like he was a cloth doll unveiled from its glass case. 

He closed his eyes, and dreamed.

============0=============

That third visitor came often after that, like his gesture had appeared to others that it was fine that she came. Stiles didn’t have the heart to care who came. It didn’t seem to matter very much.

His father, the furniture and the strawberry-blonde haired girl flitted through his days, and it was only three weeks after he was woken before she —the fourth— came, along with that third visitor that wouldn’t stop crying, and talking.

“Stiles, Allison is here,” she announced, eyes shadowed and haunted, and Stiles had an deep itch to wipe away those shadows, those haunting eyes. The urge compelled him to reach out to her sodden, red-rimmed eyes, to caress her soft, tired face. He blinked at himself. He didn’t understand much, these days. 

The fourth visitor, a raven-haired girl, seemed familiar. (They all did, and Stiles was sure all he had managed to do was forget, somehow.) Stiles slowly took in the dark hair, the pale skin, wrapping around the ghosts of her eyes, sombre and deep. He blinked at her. 

She didn’t say anything, only slowly, very, very slowly, inched her hand on top of his.

He blinked curiously at her. The touch crawled at him, like it was something he needed to immediately draw away from, but he saw something in her eyes, something fiery yet warm, something that willed him to _try_. He held on. His brows creased, and his hands started to shake. His chest heaved, he was rasping. The substance was blurring over his eyes again, like the touch was scalding hot, like he really needed to scream, but he resisted it, letting the substance fall over his eyes as he clenched them shut, trying, something in him trying to stand, trying to do this, at least for this dark-haired girl that seemed to also matter somehow.

The touch only lasted eight seconds, and she pulled away just as slowly, but his substance fell over his cheeks for even longer after that. Seconds extending into minutes, just blurring over his vision and falling out independently, like they were creatures that scrambled to fall away from his eyes and onto fabric. The dark-haired girl’s eyes also pooled over with the substance too, her face contorting, but she nodded to him, eyes burning with recognition, acknowledging his efforts.

He just blinked at her in response, the substance pooling in his blanket.

============0=============

His furniture read him weird reports randomly, sometimes, when his father was at work. 

“John Stilinski ate three full meals yesterday. There was some gin, but it was in moderation. Yesterday at work he solved a long-term theft case, and was praised by his colleagues.” The green viridescent, almost pale eyes stared back at him, his mouth moving along with his words. “He slept for four hours yesterday night, while he was here. His recent hospital report that Mrs McCall filed stated that his blood pressure is still within the healthy range.”

Stiles stared at him, gaze uncomprehending of the words. 

The furniture surged forth through reports like what he was saying didn’t matter, but Stiles doubted that was so.

It was odd. But Stiles didn’t hate it. His furniture would say things like, “Yesterday the pack hunted down the witches that came from the North and poisoned two kids. The kids didn’t make it.” or even things like “Issac made the field, and is going to play tonight. I’ll be there to watch him. 

One day, he sat down, and he began again.

“Scott McCall is attending school again, after weeks of being institutionalised. He’s still mentally unstable, but Mrs McCall took him out. I don’t know what to feel about this.”

Stiles peered at him, the name burning weirdly in his chest. But he didn’t respond.

“I think I’ll watch over the pack at the school for some time. And,” the furniture was pausing at this, and Stiles cocked his head in response, watching him, “And I may even watch over Scott.” Green eyes peered up to his meaningfully, “Just in case something happens. Again.”

And the furniture reached out, slowly, like the dark-haired girl had done, and placed it quietly over his hand. Stiles blinked at it, the contact, and felt the similar feeling rising from his throat again, like he couldn’t breathe, like he needed to scream— 

“Trust me, Stiles,” it urged, tone desperate. And so Stiles fought, biting his lip, blood pooling in his mouth like dirt, like metal, clenching his eyes over the stupid substance, hand shaking wildly, chest heaving heavily, heart banging, banging like it was about to burst— but he didn’t move away. 

Derek’s hand stayed on top of his for at least half a minute before it moved away. Green eyes knowing, pained, but those eyes never left his own blurry gaze. 

The substance wouldn’t stop overflowing for the whole night, that night. 

============0=============

An itch, beneath the edges of his skin, spreading, wading, sharp. Prickly, stabbing in little bursts. Hurt. 

The substance, the pit-black wet down his cheeks, and onto the sheets. It ripped open a hole in his heart, a vulnerable part, that was bleeding. He had ever felt so alone, so scared, in this huge wide world. He had never felt so small, so insignificant. He could feel, the sand trails of time, and its warmth, slipping through his fingers. Wispy, willowy, frail things. 

How much he sought for, desired. A love, a warmth that would fill the aching depths of his heart. A hearth fire that would sate his soul. In the room, alone and trapped in shadows, he wished for a pair of hands, tightly clasping his, intertwining, grasping tightly. He wished for a body, lying beside his trembling own, solid as a rock, breathing, living: alive. In the darkness of the room that consumed him he wished for a warmth, a fire that would calm, and love. 

But in the bleakness, consuming vacuum of his loneliness his wishes merely fuelled and fed a dark, gaping hole.

============0============= 

He heard things in between. His father and another woman were speaking hotly at the corner of the room, tones harsh and grating, as if they were quarrelling. He caught words: “press charges” and “look at him” and “I’m pursuing…” and even from the woman he heard his name: “Stiles”. His dad was visibly enraged, face red and hot, arms wildly gesturing, eyes wild. The woman, her curly hair and despairing eyes, wet, was replying in hushed, subdued tones. 

Minutes later, they approached him, his Dad trembling with white rage, and the women beside him with desperation, her curled hair tied up, her hospital nurse wear crumpled. 

“Stiles,” she started. “Please, it was an accident.” 

His father was shaking, his words soft and lethal from his lips, “I don’t _care_ , Melissa. I’m doing it. If Stiles can’t make the decision for himself then I’ll decide for him, as his father, as _Sheriff_ , for God’s sake. He can’t even hear us, Melissa, _look_ at him, look at what he did to _my son_.” His voice shook like it was being buffeted in a whirlwind. Stiles wasn’t so sure it wasn’t. “I’m going to press charges.”

Stiles looked up at them. Something was pulsing in his chest. This felt significant to him, in some weird, muffled way. He glanced up into his father’s eyes. Opened his mouth to form words-

The duo stared at him in surprise-shock, faces stilling. This was the second time he had tried to speak since day one. But, nothing came out of his mouth, out of his throat for some reason. He closed his mouth, and instead reached forward to grab his dad’s sleeve, pulling the fabric insistently, trying to convey his non-message, his non-words.

“Stiles…” his father breathed, eyes wide and filling over. “What are you trying to say, Stiles? I’ll listen, I will listen to anything you want to say.”

He pulled at the fabric, fingers gripping tight, twisting, eyes staring meaningfully into his father’s.

_Dad, no._

It clicked, somehow. The Sheriff’s eyes crumpled, his whole face did, and he was sobbed wetly into his other sleeve, covering his eyes, his world crumbling to pieces. It hurt him to realise this, to think Stiles had to do this to tell him.

“Okay,” he said in the end, face exhausted and world-weary. He never turned to the woman behind him once. “Alright, son. Alright. I won’t do it. I won’t, alright?”

Stiles let go of the fabric. He looked to the woman behind him, whose features were clouded with surprise and pain, and also gratefulness. She nodded deeply to him, once. 

He blinked back at her.

============0=============

“I heard what happened,” his furniture was speaking now, in-between his usual reports. Stiles looked up into its knowing green eyes. His right hand, the one with the broken wrist, twitched violently. He looked back at his bowl of fruits, the grey metal curves of the plate.

He picked up a green ball —grape, it was called— and put it in his mouth with his left hand. The flavour burst into plentiful sparks on his tongue. He licked his lips.

“I’m glad you’re still making your own decisions, Stiles, no matter what they are,” the furniture was continuing, as if Stiles ignoring it was nothing to it. “I don’t know if it was the right thing to do, but it’s good that you chose it, Stiles.”

Stiles blinked, picking up another ball of the fruit. These past few days they put solid food on his bedside table, and he ate whatever that was given. He could feel strength returning to his body now, slowly. He felt odd, because he didn’t need the strength that was returning, didn’t feel the need to do anything at all. 

The furniture shrugged, returning to the reports.

“Jackson told us he’s moving to London. He, and the pack, want to see you before he goes. I think you’re ready for them, Stiles. Even though they’re werewolves.”

Stiles looked back at him, ears perking up at the interesting word: “werewolves”. It stirred something. 

His furniture looked at him, eyes apprehensive. “Erica, Boyd, Isaac, Jackson. Is that okay, Stiles?” The furniture — Derek? — glanced to him, awaiting, almost hopeful for a response. Stiles blinked, looked straight into the searching eyes, and didn’t respond.

============0=============

Wide eyes, panicked, fluttering. Heart palpating, thudding, banging against his chest. Hands clenching, trembling, useless in this nightmarish dream space.

A hoarse cry ripped from his throat, deep and wet. Knot-bands a vice-grip on his hands, pulling him down. Breaths in quick inhales and exhales. Panic. A panic attack. 

Tears, flooding the hollow groves of his eyes, spilling over his cheeks and onto the floor. A sharp, quick inhale into his lungs. Large hands, grabbing his shoulder, tight, unyielding. He could not breathe; scattered, littered patters of breath lost in shadows. The strong grip wrapped around his shoulder grabbed, and slithered around the balls of his shoulders and around the length of his trembling back. He was being wrapped in a pocket of blanketed warmth, yet he could not stop shivering.

============0=============

A stranger visited often too. Ms. Morrell, they called her. She had long, straightened black hair, and a piercing know gaze. She always asked him questions, always pushed. He disliked her.

“Stiles, good to see you again,” she said, settling down in the chair beside him. His dad had gone to work. It was only him and her, alone. “How are you doing, today?”

He went back to eating the pieces of toast on his plate, already ignoring her. 

“You told your dad not to pursue Scott, didn’t you?” She said calmly, her hands in her lap, continued, “You came out of your shell momentarily to save Scott, to protect what is still important to you.” She trailed fingers along his bedside, and movement catching, and he automatically whipped his head back to watch her warily. He hated how well she understood his responses, how to manipulate him to listen. 

“But have you considered how you might be in a position unhealthy enough to be unable to make such decisions? Where are your _lines_ , Stiles? What delineates your motivations? Are you sane enough, your consciousness clear enough, to make _any_ decisions? You were victimised, Stiles. Then begs the question: Are you sparing Scott because he was your best friend?” Her lidded gaze disturbed him, and he swallowed, licked his lips nervously. She leaned forward, “Or because he was your rapis-“

He covered his ears with his hands, clenching tightly, eyes closing shut. His breathing was a wild, living thing, plunging his heart through his chest and out in the open. It was so important that he didn’t hear, somehow, that he blocked it the hell out. His hands didn’t leave his ears, but he slowly opened his eyes. 

Ms. Morrell was gazing at him firmly, lips no longer moving, expectant. She always waited for him to let go and listen before she continued. He hated her, hated this, whatever that she was doing that managed to pull responses from him. And the fact that she always remained calm throughout the process, like she knew she was inciting something on purpose, pulling comfort away from him on purpose. 

He let go of his ears. Her words were relentless, but some part of him acknowledged her methods, her efforts, as much as he detested them.

“What are you eating, Stiles?” she asked, that blank neutrality colouring her tone. He blinked at her. Push, and pull, was what she always did. Pushing him to the brink, then drawing him back to calmness with simple words. At the question, he looked to his plate, to the two small pieces of toast. 

He lifted one up with his good hand, the left one, letting it hang in the air, in an echo-gesture of offering it to her. He looked into her eyes, the raised brow. The rough texture of the food item beneath his hand was soothing, familiar. 

Ms. Morrell smiled, almost pleased, and took the toast smoothly from his hand. “Thank you, Stiles." 

============0=============

The night terrors didn’t stop. He always woke up screaming, terrified, and his dad would immediately jump to his feet, hovering, but not daring to touch. The substance — Ms. Morrell said they were tears — would stream violently from his eyes. It was always better when he woke up to light, bright glaring lights everywhere, fighting off all of the shadows. He always woke engulfed in light too, sunlight or artificial light. It calmed him, and he often settled down to his usual demeanour. The more it happened, the faster he settled, the habit kicking in. 

He never remembered his dreams, but it seemed better that way. Like the darkness of the dreams were to heavy to bear.

============0============= 

“Stiles, they’re here,” that furniture was saying —Derek—, and more figures crept through the window into the room. The faces were familiar, but he didn’t bother with remembering. Suddenly he was just glad that they came, anyway. 

 “Your dad’s reluctantly gone for a night shift,” the blonde woman —Erica?— beside him said, eyes soaking in his image, his frame. Stiles didn’t know what he looked like to her, didn’t particularly care. The others crowded around, a black-skinned man with soft, pained eyes —Boyd—, a tall, lanky teenager with dark brown hair —Isaac—, a blonde with a clenched jawline —Jackson—. Stiles just stared. 

“I’m going to London tomorrow, so yeah,” Jackson was shrugging, tight eyes trying to play it off, “Thought I’d visit a little dipshit before I leave, just to set things right before I go, you know?” He huffed like it was a small matter, and Stiles just looked curiously at him. “Not that you can understand what I’m saying, ha.” Erica elbowed him sharply, eyes warring with a warning that seemed like _cut it out_.

“Stiles, we’re glad we can see you now,” she stepped in instead, smile small, “Derek thought it was a bad idea to have too many werewolves visiting, y’know? Like that’d scare you.” She rolled her eyes obviously, the banter a little forced, “But you’re cool, aren’t you? Always been, what with all the danger fighting Supernaturals and all.”

At this time, Isaac whipped out from behind him a small card. Stiles glanced at it: “Get Well Soon!” it read, with images of flowers and balloons and happy emojis printed on it. He approached slowly, and placed it quietly on the side desk. Stiles’ eyes followed the movement. As the card was set down, he grabbed it, holding it in his hands, curling the card up close to his chest. Brown eyes looked up to five set of eyes, holding their gazes as meaningfully as he could. 

What was the normal way of thanking others again?

But they seemed to understand, small, pained smiles erupting on their faces, in stark contrast to the more tumultuous emotions inside. They nodded their acknowledgement, and Stiles set the card back on the side desk. Maybe eyes were windows to the soul, after all. 

The five of them stayed until his father returned from his night shift, then was gone as if they had never been there when the Sheriff stepped into the room 

Stiles looked out of the window in wonder.

============0=============

A story, about dreams, and feathers, wispy soft, spreading gentle, resounding ripples on the surface of the calm in his mind. A longing, to stand on the softness of clouds and dreams and soar into a wide sky. 

A little boy, dark brown hair mussed atop his head, hands clasped together, finger bent. A prayer. He was a small, insignificant little ragged tip on the wide ever-reaching arms of the plains. A speck. And yet he wished, and hoped, and dreamt. Dreams so huge they enveloped the huge sky, dreams like silver-wed cloth hung over the gargantuan massiveness of the worlds, folding and licking in on itself, weaving and fluttering. And with his tiny, beating heart that thudded erratically within the cavity of his chest, he looked to the sky; wandering, wondering, lost within gaps, holes littered across the bright sky. 

============0=============

“How’s my son, Ms. Morrell?” Sheriff Stilinski asked, brows furrowed, hands together, seated in her office. The woman before him, the therapist, Ms. Morrell, had been conducting sessions with Stiles, and John was hesitant to hear the report, to know the concluding thesis. At the same time, it suggested it would bring relief, and also more importantly, _answers_. Things he needed for both for his sanity and for his worries.   

“Mr. Stilinski, I am hesitant to disclose my report, private confidentiality and all,” she tapped the table, and the document lying on top of it, “but since Stiles in not in an able and discerning position to make that choice, I am in the confidence that it is wiser for me to share what I have learnt with you, for the sake of his progress.” She gently pushed the document towards his side of the table. “In here are things that may help you understand more about the situation. I hope this will help you improve your situation in one way or another.”

John nodded, face grim. “You have my utmost thanks, Ms. Morrell.” 

The therapist smiled, and stood to leave the office, heels clacking on the floor, before turning back, neck turning. “I understand your urgency to read the document, Mr. Stilinski, and I will leave you to your privacy to do so immediately. But a word of advice before I go?” She paused, sighed. “Please take care of yourself even as you take care of Stiles. This is what worries him the most, even in his current state. It matters to him that his loved ones stay safe and healthy, Mr. Stilinski, and you are his most important loved one.” 

John’s blinked back the tears as Ms. Morrell exited the office. ‘ _Most important loved one_ ’ echoed softly in his head. He inhaled and exhaled deeply for minutes, slowing his breathing down. He reached forward for the document, tearing the brown envelop’s top off, and pulled out the papers inside. 

It read:

_“_ _Stiles_

_\- an informative summarised report_

_(1) Rape Trauma Syndrome (RTS)_

  * _RTS identifies three stages of psychological trauma a rape survivor goes through: the acute stage, the outer adjustment stage, and the renormalization stage_



_(2) Conversion Disorder_

  * _trauma-induced muteness_
  * _causes patients to suffer from neurological symptoms, such as numbness, blindness, paralysis, or fits without a definable organic cause. In this case, an inability to speak._



_(3) Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome_

  * _condition of persistent mental and emotional stress occurring as a result of injury or severe psychological shock, typically involving disturbance of sleep and constant vivid recall of the experience, with dulled responses to others and to the outside world._
  * _Symptoms of RTS and Post-Traumatic Stress Syndrome are seen to overlap._



_Patient, in the acute stage, exhibits the following symptoms:_

  * _Diminished alertness._
  * _Numbness._
  * _Dulled sensory, affective and memory functions._
  * _Disorganized thought content._
  * _Pronounced internal tremor._
  * _Hysteria, confusion and crying._
  * _Bewilderment._
  * _Acute sensitivity to the reaction of other people._
  * _Sleep disturbances such as vivid dreams and recurring nightmares_
  * _Occasional dissociation_
  * _Touch aversion.”_



John’s grip tightened on the paper. He looked away, gritting his teeth, recalling the terrified screams, the unknowable night terrors, the writhing form of Stiles on the bed, screaming, sobbing, jerking awake, eyes ruined. John closed his eyes, and looked to the reduced form of that experience, bunched neatly into a mere few words: “Hysteria, confusion and crying.”, clinical and succinct, like that was all it was, and not the fear that thumped in his chest for his son, the agony of seeing Stiles crumpling again and again on the hospital bed, reduced to a trembling form. Or: “Numbness”; a single word, and not— the blank-eyed stare of an ashen-faced boy, the deadened charred pieces burning in those empty, lifeless orbs — his son’s suffering, reduced to clinical terms like “Touch aversion”, and not the trembling form as John placed his hand gently over his son’s, the wrecked sobbing, tears flowing freely, his heaving chest, his terror, like his father was a monster, like he had to _run away_ , to _scream_ at the contact, like it was darkness engulfing him, nails being driven through his hand. 

Tears poured over John’s eyes, his grief bright and coiling in his chest. 

_Another day_ , he said to himself, _We just have to get through another day._  

============0=============

Stiles spoke his first word when his father crumbled from exhaustion the next day. 

The man slumped over his chair, eyes closed, almost like he had drifted off to a deep sleep, but he didn’t stir, and something wrong thumped in Stiles’ chest. He clasped his hands together, eyes never left the still form. Something was stirring, was building, something like panic seemed to shout in him, something bright and pulsing and _urgent_. He reached out over the form, placing a hand on fabric, avoiding skin-to-skin contact.

The body didn’t stir, and Stiles panicked. 

He shook more violently, something, some unknown and foreign feeling welling up in his chest, and weird choking sounds sounded from his throat. His father still didn’t move, and the sick feeling insisted, pushing, lashing out madly, screaming at him to move, to do something.

He didn’t know why, but his hand automatically slammed the button, the one that his brain processed to call other people, and he choked out a half-gasping, half-muted sound that echoed the word “Dad”. He slammed at it, again and again, the sound, the word, —or the button?—, reaching inside him and pulling it out, pulling it forth, because calling his father was important, the most important thing in the world, and nothing else mattered, just faded in the blankness of the background 

“DAD!” he was shouting wildly now, panic seeping into his voice, his shoulders shaking, his heart clanging in his ears, like he was being submerged, drowning. And once the word formed fully in his mouth, his tongue, in the vibrations of his vocal cords, something tangible, real and physical, he didn’t stop, couldn’t stop saying it. 

“DAD, DAD, DAD!” he screamed, hands clutching the still form —was he dead? did he leave him, too, now? nononoNO— fingers jerking. The first person who rushed in was Derek, through the window, as if he had been nearby when the shouting began, a flurry of motion, a body jumping through the window, green wide eyes staring at him clutching his father’s still form, pausing in shock.  

Then, Derek was off again, out of the room, calling out urgently, “Nurse!”

Stiles clung onto his father, and never stopped shouting his name. 

============0=============

The nurses dragged his father off from his arms, and Stiles cried out “Dad”, even as he watched the medical staff put him on a roller and wheel him out. Derek stayed by Stiles’ side, sitting in the chair, his widened eyes never left Stiles.

After they were all gone, Stiles turned back to Derek —of course, how could he have forgotten even his name?—, face still tear-stained with worry, with panic. He gripped his blankets tightly, hands trembling from the fear of losing, again.

“Dad,” he said pitifully, closing his eyes. His breath left him in a small sob. “Dad,” he said again, and opening his eyes slowly, turning his head to look at the form beside him. The words grated at him, jarring the tears in his soul, the ache in his heart, but it was accompanied with an odd swell of relief. It felt real, hurt, but it also soothed.

Derek just breathed, his green eyes bright and wide, his skin cold, hands clammy. He didn’t know how to respond, what to do. Stiles huffed a stupid laugh at himself and only said the only word he seemed to be able to say:

“Dad.”

Derek swallowed, looked away. He rested his hands on his lap, breathed. “Stiles,” he muttered under his breath, eyes downcast. Stiles turned to him, jerking up at the name, his own name. He turned the word over in his head, noting the sibilance of it —the ’s’ sounds —, the length of its chant, the shape it would be captured on his tongue, the vibrations he needed to muster from his throat. He blinked, clenched his fists, inhaled-

“Stiles.” 

Stiles echoed back, the word leaving his mouth like a broken bird limping off from its twig-nest. Derek flinched, eyes going wide.

“Did you just—” Derek said, trailing off, then shook his head. A hopeful butterfly-like feeling fluttered in his chest. His eyes sparked, and leaned forward, wanting to draw near, to feed the fire leaping in his chest, the weak, faint thing springing little by little to life. Wanted to draw Stiles into his arms, coax the words locked up inside back to animation, to the brilliance they once were. 

“Stiles,” he whispered, the desolate word a broken, hopeful thing, cracking in his chest.

Stiles blinked at him, curiously.

“Stiles.” The name was echoed back at Derek, and Stiles reached out a hand to tap on his own chest, as if indicating himself. His guileless eyes never left Derek’s

At this, a small, genuine smile broke on Derek’s lips. 

He didn’t push anymore that night, just settled in his chair, humming a pleased sound. The smile gradually disappear into his usual dulled features, but Stiles noticed that his eyes didn’t stop smiling for the whole night.

============0=============

The steel opaque of his skin was cracking, fissures unveiling across the unmarred texture of his skin, spreading and rippling. The gaps yawned wide, like aching shadows peeking through, reaching hands and desperate fingers through the edges, pulling the sides wide apart. 

Underneath was a sea of human.


	3. Fissure

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello friends, just a little update about weekly updates. Because of school on weekdays, I will probably shift my schedule to Friday nights instead! This'll give me more time to edit out grammatical errors and such. I hope that's cool with you guys. Also, thank you for all so, so much the kudos, subscriptions, comments and the support! They really mean a lot.
> 
> As always, please take utmost care of yourselves whilst reading. The content is very fragmented and may also be triggery. Should the story ever place you in a discomforting, or unhealthy space, please, please break away to provide self-care. Thank you all very much.

* * *

  _"And the rest is rust and stardust.” _

-Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita-

* * *

 

There were ups, and then there were downs. For days after he’d spoken, he had increasingly horrible night terrors, and he didn’t dare speak again. His dad was hospitalised for exhaustion, and things were looking grim. Stiles ached to see him, to check if he really was okay, as others had tried to assure him. 

After hearing that he had spoken, Lydia also brought books for him, attempts at distracting him.

Stiles looked at the books sprawled all over his bed desk: "The Age of Entanglement: When Quantum Physics was Reborn”… “Fermat’s Last Theorem”…“Othello”… “Waiting For Godot”… “The Three Ugly Ducklings”… “Spelling Bee For Beginners”… the variety was awkward and slightly endearing. Lydia sat on the chair beside his bed, lips pursed. 

“So…” she began, ruby lips smacking, “I brought you whatever the others gave me.” She shrugged like it was nothing, and curled her lips in disgust at the children’s books, like she wanted to throw them out of the window. “Of course, Fermat’s and Othello are both mine, and The Three Ugly Ducklings is probably from Isaac or Boyd. Oh, the insinuations, I tell you. Like attracts like, am I right?” She fussed about, hiding her flustered demeanour, as if Stiles was right there with her, also laughing at their stupidity, just like the old days. He just looked curiously at her in response. She continued, imagining like he was responding as he would have: “I know. I know. One day I’ll write up a theorem to determine the incurable properties of idiocy. Maybe then, our revulsion at their tastes in books would be quite justified.”

A warm pulse leapt in him. Stiles liked Lydia. He liked her words, her humour, her attempts at treating him like nothing had happened. It soothed him, even sometimes reminded him of something _before_.

He picked up Othello, visibly pushing away the children’s books to the corner of his desk, as if they were outcasts from the stack he kept close. He looked up at her meaningfully. 

Lydia’s lip trembled, eyes watering slightly over —she had cried the most by his side, after all—, and then exclaimed in exaggerated and aggravated tones, tossing her hands upwards, “Exactly! Jesus, Stiles, the things I go through without your helpful presence in school. The stupidity clutters my nose, and no one translates my banshee nonsense as well as you do.” She smiled, limpid green eyes welled over, and she laughed. “You should see the rest scrambling while trying to understand a word I say. God, it’s terrible without you, like the whole world being dumbed down around me.” 

Stiles grabbed the book, her book, and wrapped it to his chest. Lydia smiled at the gesture.

Things were okay like that, sometimes. 

============0=============

Let's escape into a long blank page, into a world of spaced fantasies, tumbling and spiralling over one another repeatedly, growing and expanding within a limitless plane. Let us, fly away from inked blots and stains, and into fresh blankness, and let our words flow into anything we wish for them to flow into.

 

We soar in indefinite spaces; multitudes of gas-filled stars and chilly air beneath our feet. 

============0=============

The next time he spoke, it was a phrase.

“Thank you,” he said, forced it out, after he practiced it countless of times in his head, willing it through. It was easier than he thought, as if his vocal folds ached from disuse, and desired to move again, no matter how rare or minute the occurrence. He had thought for a long time about what he would say, and what needed to be said the most. He'd ended up with those two words.

The visitors in the room stared at him, shock-shelled, disbelieving, like his voice was an extinct creature they had never expected to see again. Stiles swallowed at the many faces, all of them gathered to celebrate his birthday. Lydia, Allison, his dad -who had been finally released from the hospital after days of observation-, Boyd, Erica, Isaac, and even Derek and Melissa. His little tag rag team here to watch him turn eighteen. 

_April 8th._

He watched the balloons adorning the room, the cake on the side table to his extreme right, to the multitude of brightly-wrapped presents by his bedside. He watched his family and friends — felt like someone important to his life was absent, couldn’t be there, someone who he’d almost spent his _whole life_ with, familiar warm brown eyes and cheeky smile, gaming and doing homework and solving freaking supernatural cases side by side, but not yet, they both couldn’t do it yet, couldn’t face each other, no matter how much it hurt —gathered in this small space, for him, and spoke again, mustering all his courage and his heart.

“Thank you,” he said, eyes gazing into the eyes of his loved ones, the people he stood by him. The silence of the room was deafening. “Thank you,” he repeated, dumb, like that was all he could say.

“You’re welcome,” his father choked out, breaking the silence, his eyes lighting up with conflicting emotions: happiness, sadness, relief, pain… The Sheriff’s wrinkles were now prominent, the weariness showing through his skin from his aching insides. Stiles shifted around for a moment, then said again, looking to the rest:

“Thank you.”

“You’re so fucking welcome, Stiles,” Erica said, voice strong, resolute, hands gripping her shirt, eyes steadily meeting his. Some of the others nodded their similar sentiments. Derek just leaned against the corner of the room, eyes on him.

For the first time, a twitch in his facial features, like he wanted to move. But it didn’t happen. 

Only tears —not substance, he knew now— started to trail down his cheeks, like a glacier, once cold and unyielding, had started to melt. Everyone’s reaction was immediate, and they were rushing to his side, hovering, worried. “Does it hurt anywhere?” or “Stiles!” or “Are you okay?” swamped him, cluttering the atmosphere. He brought his hands up to his face, crying sincerely now, hard, wrecked sobs, not the blank stare, not the detached crying, not trails just falling down his cheeks, like mere water was on his face, not that anymore. 

Something in him was melting, was exploding into smithereens, and cracks were showing in the smooth white surface, and the torrent of water inside just poured out, like it was an unstoppable tidal wave of emotions, hitting at him all at once. 

He sobbed like a child, hands wiping away the tears, blocking the ugly crying. Sobbed hard, voice cracking underneath the immense pressure.

“I’m.. s-sorry…” he hitched in between sobs, crying and crying but not able to stop until everything was emptied from the inside, until there was no more substance left to pour out. 

His father hugged him, rocking him through it, muttering words like “my son…”, “it’s alright now, I’m here” “Stiles, my boy…”, “jesus christ…” and even as he flinched, even as the touch gnawed deeply at him, he grabbed back tightly, hugging, ignoring the overwhelming fear, and the sensation that he was falling into a deep dark pool from the edge of the precipice. He welled up the courage, and he let go of that safe haven, slipping into a darkness he’d been running away from. 

He was done with running away. It was time to face things he didn’t want to face. He closed his eyes shut, from the worried faces, and focused on his father’s body, warm and comforting around him, like he was five again, and all that had happened was just a nightmare. “I-I’m… so… s-sorry… Dad,” Stiles said, hitched breaths uncontrollable, staccato breaths drumming loud in his ears, but all he could do was apologise, he didn’t know what for, exactly, but it seemed like that importune urge had to be fulfilled, before it swallowed him whole. 

His dad shushed at him, cradling his head gently, murmuring soothing words, on and on, rocking him back and forth, like he was a baby, like he wasn’t becoming a legal adult in hours. Stiles honestly didn’t care, just gripped tight and hung on for life. 

The world around him was changing again. 

    ============0=============

Derek placed a warm hand on the side of his cheek, softly caressing. Gentle hands wiped away the fevered perspiration beaded upon his forehead, and the residual tears streaked upon his skin.

============0=============

The next day, Stiles recovered his entire speech, all at once, like he’d returned.

His father blinked blearily awake from his bedside. Stiles looked at him, an ache pounding in his chest at the way his father looked so tired, so stripped from life. Guilt pulsed through him like a live trip wire, buzzing with electricity. A deep, dark hole was opening in his chest, now that he was seeing it, no longer turned away from the suffering of his loved ones, the agony he’d cause them, the burden he’d been. 

Stiles bit his lips tightly, tears welling over again. This time, the teary sheen no longer felt unnatural or odd, because it came with emotive understanding —feelings, something whispered to him— from the inside.

“Hi, dad,” he said, as long as his father looked at him. The Sheriff’s eyes widened, and he lunged forward to hug his son, and Stiles automatically-

His father fell to the floor, shocked, Stiles’ forceful shove distraught and fraught with panic. Stiles scrambled backwards, eyes flashing with a memory of a shadow over him, of claws ripping into his neck, his legs, and lost all breath, all voice, heart banging, fingers shaking like a leaf in the wind, fluttering madly. He couldn’t make a sound, couldn’t even scream.

The Sheriff rose from the floor, wary, heart aching. 

“Stiles?”

Stiles huffed, breathing coming faster and faster, and he couldn’t breathe, the sensation familiar — _panic attack_ , some part of him registered— his hands spasming on the bed, and his father was shouting now, worried, hands pressing the call-nurse button frantically, afraid. 

Nurses soon rushed in, assessing as Stiles faded into blind and pure panic, barely feeling the sharp prick of the needle in his arm, only that it felt like something else, something with elongated teeth and blood-red eyes. 

Stiles breathed, tried to breathe, and only saw those luminescent scarlet eyes, peering into the depths of his soul.

============0=============

Things didn’t improve even though his speech did. Sometimes, things seemed okay, like nothing had even happened, and other times, not so. Stiles felt like he was on a rollercoaster ride, the walls around him blank and unstaring as he hit concrete time and again. 

The excessive washing started immediately after his birthday. 

The obsession gripped him like he was possessed, vice-like and unyielding. He would shower, unclothed, in the shower stall, soap, pick up a prickly brush, and _scrub_. He spent hours doing that, until a nurse, or someone who was visiting, dragged him out forcefully. He would scream, desperation welling out, hating the touch, the filthy grime that clung onto his skin, and also that they would touch his filth, would stain themselves just to protect him. 

After these episodes he would often shiver, looking at bright, red, often even bloodied skin, but the marks were indelible, never fading. The dirt, the muddied blemishes were only things _he_ saw, never his loved ones, and that was why they didn’t understand, couldn’t see the muck and the grime, the sludge and the ooze, like a foul sewage dump, like mud rising from the surface from his skin, mocking him, laughing at him, staying close. 

He often scratched at his skin, long, long marks of bloodied red along his arms and legs, trying to scratch away the dirt. 

It didn’t work, and it only hurt his father, he could see it in his eyes, and Stiles stopped the scratching when his father was around. 

He made sure to bathe at least four to five times a day, and even then it felt like it wasn't enough, that he wasn’t clean enough. 

He didn’t really know why.

 

    ============0=============

He lay in the calm of the lake, eyes closed to the sound of waves lapping at his marred skin, soothing. Lights, rounded, pastel glowing orbs, adorned the water's edge, illuminated the air with a soft lilt. For a time, he could slip into a peaceful place. A calm that could descend into his heart. A sadness that wrapped its limbs around his crumpled body, tight and warm.  He was engulfed; drowning into an ocean depth of fear, and a resounding grief that latched onto the nicks in his soul.

A deep-founded sorrow pulsed through the lining of his skin. It settled, and was still amidst the gnawing hunger for light.

He reached out hands, thin, cracked, marred ones, into the darkness, searching for a glimpse of brightness. He had not forgotten the deafening sight of it, and the disbelief pounding through his dried veins. Why had it forsaken him? A blink on a black black earth.

A desperate yearning soared up from his eyes and onto the ground, and he clenched wispy faded hands into the crevice of his own heart, into the banging of his frail chest.

For he, too, breathed air and tears and life.

    ============0=============

One day Isaac and Allison visited, and Stiles looked at the hands they clasped tightly together, at their nervous demeanours. He gestured for them to approach closer, and gestured to place their clasped hands towards himself, on the bed desk in front of him. They looked to each other, and did so apprehensively.

Stiles hovered his own hands over theirs, making sure not to touch. 

“You have declared your consent before the Church.” Stiles started, eyes twinkling, Isaac and Allison huffing breaths of amusement and laughter, “May the Lord in his goodness strengthen your consent and fill you both with his blessings.” Stiles was saying in a booming and exaggerated voice, “What God has joined, men must not divide. Amen.”

“Amen,” Allison and Isaac both echoed after him, sweet smiles adorning their faces.

Stiles shot them a grin.

“Congrats, man,” he said, throat still raspy and scratchy from disuse, happiness and pride welling up in his chest at the news. Allison’s dimpled smile was saccharine, and Isaac held her close, their hands never leaving each other’s. 

“Thanks, Stiles,” Allison said, as they both sat by his side, sharing a chair, Allison almost on Isaac’s lap. They were almost literally glowing with happiness. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, okay, got it, both very in love, the sun is shining, the clouds are parting,” the young couple laughed at that, and Stiles could’t stop his own smile too, “so tone it down please, jeez.” 

The moment was serene, and Stiles was genuinely happy for them, because seeing them together, it felt right, somehow, like they clicked. He was glad for them, for their happiness. He removed his hovering hands over theirs, never once touching, and they let their clasped couple’s hands slide back down to their side.

“How’s the hand?” Isaac asked, as they settled into conversation.

“Ah, better,” Stiles said, bringing up his right hand, rotating the wrist. “Fractures of proximal third take 3-4 weeks, and the docs did operative treatment for the displaced fractures. Everything’s cool.”

They both visibly brightened at that. “That’s great, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded. “Uh huh, yeah. I’m gonna be outta here as soon as I can. Be home, catch up with schoolwork, all that, you know?”

Allison tensed up at that, trying to hide her reaction as she forcefully relaxed, tension spooling away through her will. Isaac glanced at her questioningly, surprise in his features. Stiles caught both reactions.

“You sure, Stiles?” Allison said, hesitantly, eyes dark and worried. Stiles didn’t miss the implications her words brought, but he pretended he did.

“Of course!” he said with mustered brightness. “In case you haven’t heard, I’ve been rotting here for the past month and a half. At this rate my brain is going to undergo atrophy, and Lydia will, not figuratively, but literally, kill me.” 

Isaac laughed at that, but Allison didn’t look convinced, her eyes knowing, catching on to what Stiles was trying to do. Evasion was such a difficult thing to do when a legitimate hunter was the one you were trying to practice it on. Stiles licked his lips nervously. 

“Man, and Derek would die without me, you know, the _brains_?” He continued rambling, “Who would be there to draw up Plan B, C and D? Boyd?” He laughed this time, the thought hilarious to him, and Allison finally let it go, a rueful smile on her face, Isaac laughing at the absurd image of Boyd pouring over piles of paperwork, biting a pen on his lips, like Stiles always did when he was thinking. He discussed the image with the others and elicited more laughter. 

Soon, they settled down, drifting to other conversations. The lull of the conversation drifted about, comforting and familiar.

"Do you know when?” Isaac suddenly brought up, in the midst of a conversation about the numerous Supernaturals popping up all over town. At the question, the other two looked to him to elaborate. Isaac continued, “When you’ll be out.” He trailed his long fingers over Allison’s back and forth, back and forth, the motion soothing. 

Stiles shrugged, shoulders rising then falling. “I’m pushing for Friday, but Dad’s kind of stubborn.”

His two visitor looked surprised. “But, Stiles, that’s just three days away.”

“Uh, yup,” Stiles said, “if you didn’t hear the insinuation of ‘as soon as I can’.” He gave them his signature grin, and they sighed exasperatedly at him, like worried parents over their little mischievous boy. 

After a light chatter they left, telling him that they would visit soon. He smiled as they left, waving goodbye, teasing them over their newfound love.

Times like this Stiles cherished what little happiness and normalcy he could get. 

 ============0=============

The mirror was a dark, gripping thing, echoing into his soul. 

There, he saw a face of an ashen-faced ghost, an echo of a boy. The pallid skin that stretched taut over the hollowed, dented musculature accentuated shadows of bones, whispers of scratches and scars, running over skin, indelible. His eyes were a darkened pair of void, fathomless pits that threatened to tip over a precipice, and never return. He took in the disheveled hair, the trembling dry lips devoid of blood, white as a sheet. He couldn’t look away, rooted. 

His eyes trailed to the scar on his neck, the gruesome image of it stuck on him, the marks of a bite that had ruptured not only his skin. His heart stopped. 

The shadow that stared back at himself was an ugly, rotten thing, dented and disfigured. He had never had so much hatred towards something —or was it someone?—, the thing dark and swirling, consuming his mind into a blankness. His hands wouldn’t stop shivering; he was always so cold. The reflection was a ghastly, ghastly thing. He hated it, hated himself, hated the weakness latching its roots in his soul. 

The shivering clenched fist plunged into the mirror with a mighty blow. The cloud of smoke following it branched out its tendrils, leaving in a rush not unlike haughty winds blowing amongst trees. The fist pummelled into the frail, thin skin of glass, striking a torrent of ruby hot to drip onto the smooth marble ground. The ground’s chill was a mocking trail of laughter beneath the quivering legs, snaking its way up and into bones, tendons, escaping blood. The hotness of life flowed from the open wounds, coating, colouring plain glass shards, blossoming with the fervour of thudding hearts. It travelled, flowed, in an ironically thin neat line onto the floor; the torrent a calm wave of essence dribbling out of him, draining the red, hot lava from his veins. His fist was littered beautifully with a myriad of glass shapes stuck out of misshapen folded skin, akin to an icy crystal mountain in mighty rein, with the blood forming a stark contrast to the perfect glittered crystals. His vision was awashed, saturated with blooming hues, addled with shadows and rising black figures in the background. It was teeming with grays and frightening darkness and unspoken shadows reaching out to him, swallowing and engulfing- 

============0=============

They took the mirror away the next day. Stiles peered blankly at his bandaged hand, at the rust-coloured hues it adorned, blood still intermittently seeping from his wounds. He didn’t feel much at all, like he’d been scoured out, like all the blood should have been drained from him, so that it would leave again a hollow husk of who he had been. 

He clenched his eyes, thought back to the boy he’d seen in the pictures Lydia brought. The bright smile, the lighted eyes. He closed his eyes, face contorting. They didn’t know but—

He missed him, too.

A deep grief, welling in his heart as he desperately swallowed back tears, the hot salty thing coating his cheeks, his lips. He could taste it, the fear, the foreign substance, leaking from the hole in his soul, unplugged, its maws wide and gaping. They had no idea, but he missed him, so much, —his bandaged hand clenched at his shirt, tightly, _holding_ on— wanted him back, wanted the part of himself he’d lost, too. He recalled the faces of his loved ones, the sadness in their eyes, the longing in their words, for the person they had all lost, for the person Stiles could no longer bring back for them. 

He’d lost him too.

The tears seeped into his lashes, over his eyes, coating them a darker shade of brown. He trembled. His sobs were muted, wrecked things, tumbling and falling without a grip, lost in an unguided limbo. The fist he was gripping pooled fresh blood out of his wounds, colouring the bandages a bright red. 

The pain was grounding. He laughed, the sound wet and rasping, at himself. The loss was colouring at the rents of his soul, his being. The loss of who he was, who he had been. The undeniable truth that that boy was gone from him, had leaked through the gaps of his grief and faded into pictures.

He had never left so alone, so confused. And he loathed to admit it but:

he was so, so afraid.

 

============0=============

Derek seemed determined today. Stiles peered at him, at the hunching form, the sour wolf sulk-intensity reaching sky-high levels. In response, Stiles adorned a serious expression. 

“Stiles,” Derek said, sitting rigidly in the chair. 

“Derek,” Stiles acknowledged back. Maybe he wanted to discuss the new supernaturals popping up all over town, the threats, the foes and the friends, strategic planning, collaborations. Stiles often helped Derek with those ever since he regained his speech, whenever he wasn’t having any of his panic or washing attacks. In between the bouts of insanity Stiles helped out with planning, and also got to know what things were like on the outside. It soothed him immensely that Derek was letting him help, in his own little way, and that Derek trusted him, even though Stiles would never have trusted himself.

“We need to talk about something,” Derek continued, tone grave, face stern, but hands fidgeting slightly, the only thing betraying his facade of calm. Stiles breathed. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound good at all.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles said, feigning at casualness.  

“It’s about you.” Their eyes met in between, weird static crackling ominously in the air. Dread warred in Stiles’ gut. “I need to warn you—“ Derek said.

“Derek,” Stiles said, serious, face grim, fear skittering the surface, hands clasped together nervously, “can we just… forget whatever you’re about to say? I don’t really want to hear it.”

The silence that engulfed them was still and smothering. Stiles waited. Derek seemed to struggle internally, but reached some sort of resolution. 

“I don’t know, Stiles. But I think you need to know what I’m about to tell you. It’s important. ”

Stiles looked at Derek, considering. “ _How_ important?” Stiles said, brows rising, heart palpitating. He was sure that Derek could hear it, could scent his fear from his skin. Stiles swallowed.

“It’s about that night,” Derek started. And as soon as he said ‘night’ Stiles already had his hands clamped over his ears, fear already overriding his brain. Oh my god, oh my god, not good at all, he thought blankly, wildly, some deep part of him shocked at this whiplash reaction. He scrambled backwards from Derek, chest heaving, seeing shadows in the corners of the room, reaching out to grab him, even though the artificial lights were bright in the room. 

He didn’t scream, but he heaved like he couldn’t breathe, breaths coming faster and faster, and the world around shifting, tilting on an edge, and he was falling, falling in spirals and dizzy nauseous circles. Oh my god, oh my god- it was happening fast, so rapidly, like a free-fall through the sky, plunging. Voices, in his head, whispering, flashing images, movements, a hunched figure on top of him, clawing through flesh, two bright ruby points—

“NOTHING HAPPENED THAT NIGHT!” he suddenly cried at Derek, eyes clenched shut, ears blocked by his hands. His breaths came out with a full blow of sound, the banging of his heart surging through the fear, the waves of adrenaline. He didn’t really know what he was saying, his brain fuelled by instinct and terror. They were just sounds, travelling rapidly from his throat, a shout of pain and agitation all bundled up into a flash. 

“ _NOTHING_!” 

Derek’s eyes widened in shock, like he hadn’t expected that response, so sudden, so abrupt, like a bullet that had been fired off too early from the start-point, before the timer had even begun to tick down at all. He seemed determined, though, eyes suddenly flint-hard, jaw set tightly. He didn’t move, didn’t approach, just sat there, and Stiles _couldn’t_ breathe.

Derek made sure Stiles was looking right into his eyes, was looking at the words he was mouthing, lips forming shapes, and _said it_ anyway, the words ineffaceable, permanent, haunting, like the sight was inked into his brain, tendrils plunging through the soft tissue matter. Derek surged through, his face set in stone, determined, stoic, and pushed forth. He explained through the Stiles’ panic, like he was performing some necessary and ritualistic motion, unavoidable, out-talking the loudness of Stlies’ breaths, the crazy beat of his heart. Stiles was going mad, everything was spinning, was crumbling before him—

Then it was done. He’d listened what Derek had to say. It was over.

The panic attack lasted for a long time after that, and Stiles still attempted to hold on, to let the attack pass. He hunched over himself, pressed one hand to the bed, trying to ground himself. He tried to remind himself that this was momentary, was not hurting him, but it still hurt, felt like a pole had been plunged through his heart.

But the hyperventilation didn’t stop for too long a time, and he passed out. 

============0=============

“Let me guess,” Erica said, flicking at her nails. Derek looked up, nose flaring in annoyance. “You tried to tell him, didn’t you? And it turned out badly.”

Derek huffed, looked away, didn’t deny it because it was true. Erica leaned against the couch he was seated down at, looking down at his stoic face. She sighed, “Derek, these things take time.”

“There’s _no_ time, Erica. He’s going to be released Friday,” Derek said, tone urgent, almost frustrated, but all Erica heard was the well of worry underneath it, because all Derek often was was a worrywart, through and through. The pack had been more stable because of Derek’s efforts, she knew. And even then, with Stiles and even Scott gone from their side things had never been the same. The Incident, they called it now amongst those who knew, changed many things, and Erica was confident it wasn’t for the better. On top of that, as they rotated visits, peeking, between Scott and Stiles, they had to deal with covens of witches, other packs passing through or drawn here, weird supernatural mass murderers, undead Walkers who roamed town to search for food, isolated Druids searching for sacrifices… Erica’s head throbbed. 

Sometimes they were swept up with all the relentless chaos, other times they triumphed, only just barely, scraping through the nicks and back out alive, and they rejoiced through another day. They had to settle their schoolwork —their human parents, the Sheriff, Allison, Lydia and even Stiles himself insistent on the importance of academics— while also balancing pack life. Life was gritty, but, she had to admit, sometimes rather fun. 

“Friday’s quick,” Erica said, raising a brow, “but honestly not surprising. Can you imagine the monetary burdens on the Sheriff? ” She shrugged, looked to her nails again, ignoring Derek’s default and uninventive glare, “I mean, do you see how much Stiles cares for his dad? If given the chance he would have been out of there on day one.”

Derek looked murderous, and Erica interpreted his headspace to be along the lines of how-could-you-think-or-say-that-even-though-it’s-true-Erica and i’m-so-angry-at-this-fact-but-i-can’t-do-anything. She snorted to herself, earning a frown from the Alpha instead.

“If he returns to school-“

“Ah, ah, ah,” Erica interrupted, finger tapping at the air as she made her point, “You mean, _when_ he returns to school, in the _same_ year as us, because he’s already caught up with the syllabus with Lydia’s books and her guidance?” 

Derek stared at her pointedly, as if saying ‘that wasn’t the point’. 

“I mean, have you seen the kid’s grades? Good lord,” Erica muttered, huffing, “It’s like Lydia cloned a more annoying male version of herself.”

“ _When_ ,” Derek said, tone a warning that expected no more interruptions, “he returns the school, Erica, with _Scott McCall_ in the very same school, what do you think will happen?”

Erica glanced at Derek, gaze coloured. She looked down, gulped, shrugged, “Maybe Stiles can transfer schools? Move somewhere far…” She was already looking upset at the notion, fist clenching. Would he, really? She wouldn’t blame Stiles. It seemed logical, like something people needed to move on, to forget—

“He won’t,” Derek said, voice gruff, “Stiles will stay, and that’s the problem.” Erica glanced up, surprised. 

“How do you know?” Erica said.

“I feel it. In my gut,” he said, and she nodded, like that explanation was the most concrete, made the most sense to her as a fellow werewolf, “He feels obligated to us, to the pack, to Beacon Hills. And his dad’s also the Sheriff, remember? He’ll stay,” The ‘ _I know it_ ’ remained unspoken between them.

“Then, how about this: in school, we’ll crowd Stiles, protect him,” she said, as if the solution was simple, was so logical, and Derek looked up at her, considering her words, because it seemed like something more plausible than the other plans he had conjured. “You know,” she continued, “we’re all taking overlapping classes, after all. We’ll just shield him, from, y’know, that one person he can’t afford to meet.”

Derek raised a brow. “Everyday?”

Erica grit her teeth, determined. 

“Every fucking day, if it comes down to it.”

      ============0=============

On Thursday morning, Stiles’ head pounded. He hurt, all over. 

“Morning, sweet,” Lydia was by his bedside, concern radiating like waves from her petite form. Stiles opened his eyes, and the world swirled around him. 

“W-What happened?” he murmured, voice raspy. 

“You… uh,” she said, looking for the words, “indulged in quite a lengthy duration of continuous hyperventilation before passing out, yesterday night. I mean, you do know panic attacks can result in loss of consciousness as a result of hyperventilation and breathing too quickly, right? Yeah, that totally happened.”

She pressed her lips together, and said nothing else. He stared oddly at her. Now that the muffled web was clearing from his head, he remembered Derek there, in the corner, serious, like he wanted to tell him something—

He jerked, eyes widening.

Lydia flinched, wincing, her face knowing.

He wanted to scream, bit down the urge, clenched his eyes. His heart was being torn apart, something was shifting inside him, something fundamental and integral. He let the tears fall naturally, uncaring of his audience, breathing hitched and wet, rasped. He clutched at his chest, tried to hold himself together, to stop the pieces from falling apart. He thought back to the words—

“That night,” he said, tears streaking down his cheeks, “Oh my god.”

Lydia inhaled a shock of breath, at the phrase falling, tumbling from his lips, like she’d never thought he would say it so blatantly, so loud in the smallness of the air around them. She was trembling, now too, drowning in Stiles’ grief, in his pain.

“S-Stiles?” she ventured, hesitantly, her makeup already starting to smear.

He turned to her, eyes wrecked, both hands twisting his shirt, clutching, so so tightly at his chest, like if he let go everything would fall out. He bit his lips, let out a wet raspy breath that was agonised, felt like he was thoroughly scoured through with hot, biting metal. 

“It’s all my fault, Lydia,” he gasped hotly, voice wet, “It’s all my fault.”

    ============0=============

“Heightened feelings of self-blame and guilt, reversion to intense emotional turmoil, worsening plaguing night terrors, newly developed symptoms: flashbacks, minimisation, which is of course the pretence that 'everything is fine'—” Ms. Morrell said, voice displeased, tapping the board, checking off a longer list, looking at Derek particularly from the crowd of faces. “Anyone care to tell me _what_ happened?”

All of them were in her office. They stood around, uncomfortable, faces almost guilty. 

“I told him,” Derek said, eyes bright, mouth set in a ‘I had to’ manner. Ms. Morrell’s eyes seared, her displeasure almost swirling in the room. The others shrunk back. 

“When I last saw him, he was treading on firmer road, ready to return home and even to school. Some of his symptoms were already gradually diminishing. There was a lot of improvement. But now, _Derek_ ,” she said, enunciating the name like it was spittle, “he’s not only reverting to unhealthy coping mechanisms, but is also reverting to _newly developed_ ones.” She closed her eyes, controlling the leaping flames of anger, mastering herself. “And that’s not good.”

“But he’s still out, on Friday, right?” Isaac asked, voice hesitant. 

“Yes, Isaac,” Ms. Morrell said, “he’s still being released. But, with his current condition, I’m not very sure if that’s good or not. And there’s that other issue: the mating bond between Scott and him. We don’t know if it took root or not. Being in the same school will be dangerous.” 

Derek gritted his teeth. “But Scott bit him, several times, and Stiles didn’t Turn.”

Ms. Morrell looked solemn, eyes grave. “Yes.”

“And mates are immune to their Alpha’s bite,” Derek continued, surged on, laid out the facts because he hated skirting around the issue, not facing it directly like they should. “Stiles became Scott’s mate before he continued to bite him, didn’t he? That first bite, the deep one on Stiles’ neck, that had to be the Mate Claim.” His eyes started to flash a dark, hateful red, fury roiling in his gut, “That’s why Stiles is _human_. That’s why he didn’t _Turn_.”

“Derek…” Erica said, gently putting a hand on his shoulders, tone tinged with sadness.

He shrugged the hand off, pain pulsing deep within him. “I’m fine, Erica. It’s just that we keep saying we don’t know, but we’re just not facing the facts.” Derek peered upwards, a startlingly blue shade colouring his eyes. Erica swallowed. Derek did not hide his pain, his grief, just cast his eyes down to the floor.

“It’s already _done_ , and now Stiles knows it, too, just like he should.”


	4. Storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> About the tags: Since it seems like it's up to the author whether a tag is of a romantic or sexual nature, I've decided to not keep the "Stiles/Scott" tag, so as to avoid confusion for readers seeking a Stiles/Scott romance. For those who are confused, note that the relationship between Stiles and Scott in this story is not of a romantic nature. Thank you for understanding :)
> 
> Also, thank you for all the love and support :) I always appreciate the lovely discussions in the comments section.  
> As usual, please break away to initiate self-care in any instance where you feel placed in an unhealthy mental space. 
> 
> *gives all hot chocolate and fluffy blankets for the journey ahead*

* * *

 " _Do I dare_

_ Disturb the universe?” _

—T. S. Eliot, “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock”

* * *

‘What really happened that night?’ was a question he’d avoided, ran away from, almost managed to forget. But Derek’s words clenched him back into a harsh reality with gripping jaws, maw wide and agape, ready to consume him whole. As Stiles drifted along the planes of his subconscious, he saw flashes —moments— of _that_ day, him hugging a terrified Lydia to his chest, placing her head over his shoulder, gripping tight, or him worried for Xxxxx, afraid something was going to happen to him, that the Full Moon would invite predators to hunt him while he was vulnerable, that Stiles had to protect him, his brother, although he’d forgotten that Xxxxx himself was already a predator. He remembered the sunny air at his school, the Economics class he’d endured through, jittery for the night’s plans. He couldn’t have known that it would have been his last class for a long time to come. 

Stiles blinked in the darkness, the tendrils unfurling, thought back to Lydia’s premonition, how it all made sense now, how they’d been so stupid, so impulsive. 

The Moon’s Perigee, he’d said, excitedly, jumping over the information, eyes bright, and alive, unknowing. One of its rare 13 perigees, where the Moon would be closest to the Earth, would even appear bigger when compared to another object. The Full Moon actually coinciding with the Perigee, like it was some Halloween Special. 

He laughed bitterly to himself. What was he talking about? It _had_ been a Halloween Special. In fact, a freaking Mating Season Halloween Special. He would’ve laughed, but the sparks of amusement didn’t flare up like it should, from his belly to his throat out from his mouth. Instead, he felt nothing.

_Mated and mounted like a bitch_ , he thought, the numbness returning, soothing. He blinked in the darkness, rubbed his hands against his jeans. He’d done this to Xxxxx, had not listened when he’d said to never return to the house, to bring Allison and the rest away to the Sheriff’s for the night. It had all been so obvious, if only they had thought things through, had considered what Xxxxx had been trying to tell them, to warn them.

But they hadn’t known about the Mating Cycles, the truth hidden within the veils of the Full Moon’s Perigee. Had blundered deeply into a trap.

He remembered—

Xxxxx’s warm brown eyes, the dimpled smile. Or the worried crease of his brow as he dragged Stiles to a corner, face concerned and worried, insistent even.

_“Listen, Stiles,” he said, brows furrowed, frowning, “on the next Moon, can you take Allison to your place? Keep her safe there for the night?”_

_Stiles laughed, like the thought was absurd, smacked Xxxxx’s arm. “Xxxxx, buddy, are you insane? Why the hell would she agree?” Stiles then frowned, mulling it over. “Wait. You want me to what?”_

_Xxxxx’s face was solemn, almost exasperated. “I need you to protect her, Stiles. Heck, invite Lydia and the non-wolf gang, get a sleepover party or whatever okay? Please please do this for me.”_

_Stiles looked over his best friend’s face, at bushy eyebrows, the puppy-dog eyes, the pleading, almost pouting mouth. He sighed, pressing his hand over his face, dragging it down. Oh my god, he was so dead, because he was so going to do this for Xxxxx, because who ever resisted that god damn pleading puppy-face?_

_“Xxxxx, at least give me_ something _to work with, Jesus, I’m going to die,” he muttered, eyes looking elsewhere. He flung his hands up, “My dad only_ half-believes _the things going on around here, okay? I’m not going to scare him with the Full Moon crap as much as I can, if not the next thing I know, he’s going to be patrolling the streets every Full Moon with a crappy gun, that —oh wait— can’t actually hurt werewolves!”_

_Xxxxx bit his lip, shaking his head minutely like he was trying to process the words but just ended up skipping over the unneeded bits. “Just— Just…” Xxxxx started, and Stiles relented. “Okay, okay. Yes, Xxxxx the big bad Xxxxx, I’ll do it, okay? Human Stiles here again, saving the day- Oh my god, uhh, yeah. I just thought of the perfect thing.”_

_Xxxxx raised his brow at him, unconvinced, but still he said: “What?”_

_“Let’s just invite Melissa, too? Because my dad’s been getting way too chummy with your mom—“ the glare shot at him made his chest bubble with even more laughter, “yeah, that’s an image.”_

_“Okay, Stiles, okay I’m going to count on you for this okay? It’s all going to be hush hush right?”  
_

_Stiles rolled his eyes, “Yeah, yeah. Geez, I don’t understand why you’re so uptight about it, Xxxxx. Are you sure you don’t want me to accompany you on that night?”_

_The brown eyes stared, brows furrowed. “No, Stiles. I’ll be fine. Seriously just do it okay?”_

============0=============

“Nothing’s wrong,” Stiles said, cocking his head. He sat up from the bed. “I’m okay, fine, dandy, all of the above, checked.” 

His dad stared at him, unsure. “If today’s too soon, Stiles…”

“It’s not. Yeah, I’m pretty sure today’s the best day to leave,” Stiles said, eyes glancing upwards. “I’m sick of this place. Time to get some much needed fresh air.”

He grabbed the small box of things from his bed side desk. Inside, there were piles of books, clothing, and little cards or flowers from visitors. One card read, “Get Well Soon!” with colourful cartoon characters and balloons inked on the front cover. Stiles looked at that one, recalled the night that Jackson had said his goodbyes. He cocked his head, trying to recall it, the memory, but it was slightly fuzzy. 

He closed his eyes.

“Stiles…” the Sheriff started, sounding unwilling and unsure. He shuffled his feet, put a hand into his side pocket, looked at the ground, as if wanting to say something, but wasn’t sure. Stiles looked at his father’s face, at the wrinkles adorning the skin there, the aching torment seared into his eyes, the grim set of his lips. In the time from The Incident to now, a month and a half later, his father had endured, had been through so much suffering, because of him. The gaunt face was haunting, and Stiles’ heart ached to see it, to know the cause of it. Stiles cast his eyes to the ground.

_It’s all my fault._

The words rung like bells, clarity and truth scouring him from the inside, scaling up the walls, licking at the tendrils of darkness steadily latching roots in his heart. The emptiness yawned wide and whole inside him, a growth that spread rapidly, lashing out. The four words pulsing for more than just for the agonies his father had been through. A flash of Derek’s face, his words, inked into his heart, emerging.

_It’s all my fault._

“I’m okay, dad,” he said, the words were hollow, his skin frail and empty, like wispy fabric shedding and fraying. The air was suddenly too harsh on his skin, on the wasted delicate edges, like it would blow it away, crush it to pieces. The Sheriff looked at his face, his expression pained, as if he saw the frigid tatters skirting the edges of his eyes, the lie of his assurances. 

He walked to his son’s side, grabbed the box of items. It was surprisingly light, like the whole box encompassed the whole of Stiles entirety here, the frailness and the fading presence all in one. His fingers tightened on the box’s edges. He looked up and met his son’s wavering gaze, empty, empty eyes, the bitten lips, the long red scratches on his arms, welts that spanned across wispy skin. Stiles licked his lips nervously, the reflex resurfacing.

Stiles let the silence hover over the space between them. His heart seemed to stop beating, the silence accentuating the brokenness of his lie. He said no more, only picked up the Sheriff’s bag leaning on the bed frame and slung it over his shoulder. He slipped into his sneakers. 

They walked out of the hospital room.

============0=============

Sitting in the jeep with his father on the driving end felt odd to him. It felt like his world was being inverted, things tipping on an edge. He climbed into the jeep, and felt the familiar rumble break through his skin, rev up his heart beat. He looked out the window. The last time he’d driven the jeep was when—

A familiar house flashed in his mind, one that he’d climb into frequently, words from his dad’s compact police radio device still ringing in his head, alighting his lust for adventure, for exploring the fringes of the gruesome and the dark. The windows still stood tall and beckoning in his mind’s eye. _Another mystery to explore, Xxxxx_ , he would say eagerly, excitement colouring his words, _We gotta go, man, yeah can you believe they found an honest-to-god dead body?_

He opened his eyes, willed the image from his mind. Those were dangerous waters. 

“I uh, cleaned up your room a bit a few days back,” the Sheriff said, bringing up easy conversation as best as he could, eyes still on the road. He looked uncomfortable, seemingly worried of Stiles stewing dangerously in his own thoughts. 

“Thanks,” Stiles replied, hands, one still bandaged, rubbing against each other. He didn’t know when the bridge between them had grown awkward, both failing to smoothly convey what they wanted to say. He tried hard not to dwell on it, this other loss that had occurred so quietly, so smoothly. 

The Sheriff looked back, eyes deepening with meaning, acknowledging the words further than what they meant. 

“No problem, kiddo,” he said. His paternal gaze looked like he yearned to ruffle Stiles’ hair or give him a pat on the back, but the Sheriff didn’t move towards him, only continued driving, eyes ahead on the road. Stiles appreciated but also loathed the non-gesture, the almost cordial stranger-like distance between them. It tasted unfamiliar, was plastic and hard on his tongue, and it ached at him. He quickly cast away the feeling.

“Do you think I could drive to school, sometime soon?” Stiles asked, tone carefully draped with casualness. He shrugged, the motion awkward, an echo. The Sheriff didn’t look at him, eyes still on the road, on the blinking lights of vehicles and not the eyes on his son. It seemed easier, somehow. Less arduous. 

“After your hand recovers, maybe. We’ll wait and see, okay?” The Sheriff said.

“Okay,” Stiles said. Rain was starting to fall, dribbling softly on the windowpanes. Stiles looked at the falling droplets hitting and streaking down the clear, chilled glass, forming shapes and lines as they swirled, linked up, and fell together, down and down, descending past his visible line of sight. The air was becoming more cold, more frigid, like ice. It chilled him to his bones. Fingers moved to wrap his jacket closer to himself. 

“The sky’s crying,” Stiles said into the silence. At this, the Sheriff finally looked at him, glancing for a brief moment, before returning to the road. The look had been warred with worry.

“It’s pretty,” Stiles said in response to the look, shrugged, as if that had been an adequate explanation. He peeked out a lone finger from his hand, and traced the lines of rain flowing on the windows. The dribbling, drumming pitter-patter soothed, the sounds constant and relentless, coupling with the rumble of his jeep, emanating from his seat into his skin. The sounds were drowning out his stormy thoughts in his head, as if the physical storm outside had drawn out the war in his mind, sucking up the mental maelstrom against the power of its winds, its raindrops that were intermittently streaking down Stiles’ glass windows. 

He gradually fell into a calm sleep, amidst the blare of a raging tempest. 

============0=============

The Sheriff looked at the sleeping boy, heaved a deep breath, and looked back to the road. 

_Another day_ , he thought, _we just have to get through another day._

============0=============

It was a storm of power.

There were noises everywhere. Deep, threatening voices, rumbling into his ears. Flashes of someone screaming, hands scrambling, scratching and clawing. His own heart beat, louder than his breaths, booming next to his ears. In him, a feeling, a surge of power, unveiling his eyes. It was so monstrous, so blaring, but it rippled his skin, pulsed underneath the surface. Everything around him was a storm of power, buzzing through his nerves, the hand thumping wildly at his back. 

Wide, terrified eyes beneath him. 

The smell, the rasps, the metallic tang of blood coating trembling lips, a wounded neck. It was enticing, calling out to the Wolf, to the basal instincts rising forth within. He leant down to the neck, sucking and lapping at the tattered skin, the flavour of blood bursting in his mouth, wet and raw. A growl from him inside him, vibrating through his skin. 

“P-please…” the body underneath him was saying, the arm that was hitting painfully at his back stilling and falling to the ground.

Scott stilled momentarily. The voice rung with a familiarity of childhood; schoolwork and video games at four am, hiding in bushes for hours on end, climbing through windows with baseball bats and inhalers, running in bursts across a wide Lacrosse field, feet pounding against dirt, treading under a darkened sky, laughing at each other in a worn Jeep. His fists clenched. Something was wron—

But the haze of red, of death and life and lust, was pooling over his eyes again, over the voice he tried to reach out to, to grab on to, and the thought seeped out of his head. The Wolf dominated, howling at the Full Moon, at the prey he’d slashed through with his claws.

The Moon was a beautiful, enchanting being, its tendrils wide and glaring in its own light, away from the light of any Sun. It was so close to him, so near Scott could inhale its breaths, intermingling with his own on the dirt floor of his own room, could scent the power of the moonlight through the pores of his skin. He drifted on an uncontrollable wind, a maelstrom of heady power, a whiff controlling the bunching muscles, the razor-edged claws. He thrived under Her gaze, soaking up the strands of her touch, roiling in her turbulence, in her prayer for chaos, for his descent into darkness. 

There was only the Wolf, and his Moon.

Scott peered down at the lithe body on the floor, at the blood spilling over its neck, trailing to the floor. His dilated ruby pupils eyes flashed a brighter red, his rows of sharp teeth snapping, and reached down to feed on the blood of kill. 

It was _perfect._

============0=============

“We’re here,” the Sheriff said, the voice stirring Stiles awake. He blinked his eyes open, looked out the window. The dark sky still drizzled slightly, small drops going pitter-patter on the hood of the Jeep. He looked at his dad, who nodded to him. 

They climbed out of the Jeep at the same time. Stiles peered at his own house, now an entity so foreign and so far away from him. He peered sideways along to his father’s profile, and stepped aside for him to enter first. He didn’t have the keys anyway. He was disallowed to have any sharp objects in his possession.

The Sheriff whipped the keys out of his pockets, the metallic pieces jangling together. He slid it smoothly in the lock, and turned. Stiles looked away, back to the sky. Everything felt off, the way the world seemed inverted somehow, tilted off an edge. His Dad unlocking the door for him, or driving his Jeep, or even the way Stiles felt uncomfortable entering the home he’d known for the whole of his life. He closed his eyes, stared at the back of his eyelids, and thought of nothing.

He trailed after his father into the house.

Things were different. He looked around the house, at its state of disuse, dust collecting in some spots. There was a slight musty taste in the air. Stiles noticed the imprints of frames that were once hung on the walls. Many of the photographs had been removed, the dust collecting over the pressed shapes of the wall. 

“Welcome back, son,” the Sheriff said, turning around to meet his eyes, gaze hovering over worried and hopeful. His arms lifted like they wanted to wrap around Stiles and clench tightly so nothing would ever separate them, but it soon drifted downwards, like his dad had accidentally caught himself, and was now admonishing himself for forgetting, for forgetting that his borderline insane son was touch-averse. Stiles grit his teeth, swallowing, pulling back the self-hatred, the loathing for his uselessness, for the hurt he’d caused —was still causing— his father. 

“Could you—” Stiles started, licked his lips, welled up courage, “Dad, can you put your hand on the table?”

The Sheriff’s answering glance was questioning, but he slowly placed a hand on the glass table they were standing beside, palm faced downwards. Stiles made a flipping up motion with his hand, and the Sheriff slowly turned his hand, his palm now facing upwards. 

“Stiles—“ his father began.

“Trust me,” Stiles said, eyes imploring, heart thudding. “Trust me, Dad.”

The Sheriff’s breath caught at the words. He nodded, eyes clenching, pulling back the turmoil of emotions at the complications of those words, just placed his hand there, unmoving. _Of course I trust you, son_ , his gaze seemed to say, _of course I do_. Stiles kept the words in his head, as he slowly placed his hand on top of his father’s. 

At the immediate contact, a scalding hot burst of terror coated his skin, his nerves, the trembling wracking forth. Stiles bit his lip hard and bore it; the impact, the sharp sound of a chalk screeching in his ears, banging loudly. He clasped his hand over his dad’s tightly, gripping, not letting go. He rasped wetly, the fear rippling through his skin, buzzing through the sounds. 

“L-Listen, Dad,” Stiles managed through the overwhelming onslaught of fear, cutting off his Dad’s rising protests. He could see it in the worried gaze, the hurt pounding through the Sheriff’s chest at his son’s state. 

“I love y-you _so_ much,” Stiles mindlessly rambled, breaths quick, gripping the Sheriff’s hand so tightly there was hardly any feeling left, any blood left running through those veins. The words were pouring over, like a flood, and Stiles knew they had to be said, had to be conveyed, before the dam was forever shut, and no words would ever make it out. “And I’m so s-sorry, for causing all this, for _always_ doing this to you.” His gaze was now blurry, the fear tearing through him, his eyes welling up with all the hurt, all the frustration, his worry for his dad spilling over. 

“Stiles…” his father’s voice was wet, was wrecked with grief, with pain, like he’d let a snippet of the torrent he’d kept so cleanly inside out for a moment, relieving the building pressure, “It’s _not your fault_ , son.”

Stiles’ eyes were clenched now, his heart beating loudly over his tears. Guilt was a cloudburst engulfing his heart, seeping into his soul. _Untrue words_ , voices whispered in his head, slithering, _it’s your fault, Stiles, it’s always been your fault._ Stiles nodded, agreed with the different words, not the ones of his father but that of the voices in his head, the venom thick and coating.

He let go of the hand, and dropped to the floor, hunched over himself. 

_(I’m so sorry you can’t touch me, Dad, that we can’t hug anymore, that things so screwed up now.)_ He wanted to say, wanted to scream out. Stiles clutched his head, and clenched his eyes. Everything was inverted, inverted like how trees hung from the ceilings, like how shadows encroached all his spaces, like how the sun had been plunged into a deep, dark sea, diluting into a faded echo. 

Everything was wrecked. Everything was wrong. Stiles breathed through his mouth, gasps of air travelling through, but it wasn’t enough because his lungs were _aflame_. He shuddered. 

Stiles grabbed the inhaler from his pocket, and jammed in into his mouth, riding out the panic attack as best as he could. The Sheriff’s worried shouts were muffled in the background.

Even when the panic left, the pain didn’t.

============0=============

He slept for three hours, that night.

============0=============

On a Saturday morning, Lydia rang his doorbell.

Stiles opened the door, stood with a raised brow along the door frame, his hair wet and dripping, a towel slung over his neck. He’d just taken his second bath that morning. 

In her arms, Lydia was carrying piles of notes, books, and colour pens. She was dressed primly, her dress a pale pink and her heels a matching set of maroon. She pursed her lips, raised a brow back at him, chin high, look expectant. Stiles huffed a laugh at the image. 

“Good morning, Mr. Stilinski. I will be conducting a productive use of your twenty four hours today, through the means of education,” she said promptly, a set of black-framed glasses set upon her face. Her slender finger tapped slowly on the pile of books in her arms. Stiles held back laughter, his eyes lighting up with amusement. 

“Good morning, Ms. Martin,” he acknowledged, bowing, his dripping hair flopping forwards into her personal space. She grimaced at the dripping, stepping back a foot. Stiles laughed at the disgusted expression. He stepped back from the space, letting her step into the house. 

They decided to sit at his desk. He whipped out stationary from his drawers, allowing them to loudly clatter across the table, some rolling over to Lydia’s side. She glared at him. Oops. He nervously grabbed a blue-inked one that had rolled the furthest, and stuck it into his mouth, in between his lips. The habit came to him naturally, and was soothing, like he was attending school again. Lydia’s mock glare faded then, and she looked at him oddly, at the pen between lips, like she was thinking back to something, a time before. She shook her head, set the papers and books between them. 

“You’ve read all the notes I’ve given you? Done all the work I’ve asked you to?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, still biting at his pen, “it was boring at the hospital, didn’t have much else to do without my laptop. Probably caught up with the crew. Or… you know, with all the extra readings you’ve attached to the notes, maybe even ahead…?”

He looked questioningly at her, the look asking, and she shrugged. 

“If you’ve understood all the stuff I’ve vomited then, yes. You would be ahead of syllabus. Like me.” She paused, thinking. 

Stiles laughed now, eyes bright. “Lydia, you had enough credits to graduate a long time ago, before you even started senior year.”

She smiled at the sight of him laughing, and clasped her hands together. “Of course I did.”

He shook his head, and returned to the books in front of him. The various subjects were not unfamiliar nor daunting, given that Lydia’s notes had turned out more to be research papers extending way beyond their high school content. He sniffed his nose at the pile of books. Reading and researching had always been a warm and comforting hand, and Lydia had played that aspect of him perfectly, guiding him through all he’d missed through the best way he absorbed material: papers, puzzles, mysteries, basically content that managed to pique his interest, he’d be totally into. He thought back to the week he’d spent hours delving in the entire history of the male circumcision, solely because he had heard about biological process in class, and couldn’t cast the concept from his mind. He had spent countless of sleepless nights poring over unanswerable questions, until he finally gave up and went on to conduct his own research over the topic. Honestly, why didn’t the others wonder? Why exactly would anyone want to—

“Earth to Stiles?” Lydia said, snapping her fingers in front of him. He flinched back in instinctive fear, the snapping abrupt, and Lydia grimaced in apology, withdrawing her hand. 

“You okay, Stiles?” she asked, now worried. He looked to her, shaking his head.

“Yeah, no, it’s okay. I’m fine. I was just thinking back to… you know…um…male circumcision?” 

Lydia’s brows were raised sky high. Stiles huffed a nervous breath of laughter, then frowned. Wait, that came out wrong. That was— Oh snap. 

Lydia’s brows furrowed back together, mirroring Stiles’ frown. The confused silence spread between them as Stiles opened his mouth to explain. Lydia immediately raised a hand to stop him.

“Nope, Stiles. I _still_ kind of don’t want to know why you detailed the entire history of the male circumcision for the final question on your _Economics_ midterm exam, thank you. I honestly think you made an indelible memory on Mr. Finstock for that one.” 

Stiles laughed now, the memory surging. He’d been too distracted, his thoughts too deep about what he had read the previous night that he basically inked whatever he could retrieve from his mind. Lydia laughed with him.

“Stiles, honestly, I’ve never seen someone so smart be so dumb, sometimes. Well, case in point, maybe only you do that.” She shot him a grin now, as if sharing a private joke. “It’s okay. I think it’s a Stiles thing.”

He sobered slightly at the words. _A Stiles thing_ , huh. He huffed a little breath. The words meant so much more to him than anyone could imagine. He kept the phrase in his mind, protecting it somewhere deep inside to revisit, an inkling of pure, forbidden light, hovering near the wide expanse of ink-black shrouding his being. 

He placed back the pen next to the books on the table, his mood at the moment light, almost like he was drifting on a soft wind. He had even forgotten about taking his third bath, appreciating Lydia’s company over the furious scrubbing at his dirt-coated skin. Her grounding presence helped him momentarily forget the wider world, the starkness of his reality, and it soothed him that she treated him the way in the same way she did before, as best as she could. He felt better, felt more stable. He turned to her. 

“So… Ms Martin,” Stiles said, raising a brow, thumb pointing at the various books, “where do we begin?”

============0=============

They studied through the whole day, Lydia never once leaving his side. The Sheriff bought back dinner for them, and even through dinner Lydia was engaging him in conversation about the content and topics they had slogged through for hours. Stiles was attentive the entire time.

“In the polymerase chain reaction the forward and backward primers attach at the sequence of interest, right?” he said through mouthfuls of pasta, his fork twisting through the food. “Then the heat-stable ol’ buddy Taq polymerase works at 163 fahrenheit to add on existing nucleotides at the three prime OH end to elongate the chain.”

“Mm,” Lydia responded through her mouth of pasta. “What temperature do we start with?”

“203 fahrenheit, first.  Wait, Lydia.” Stiles shook his head, a thought suddenly striking him. “But I’m not taking any advanced AP Biology classes.” 

She rolled her eyes at him across the table.

“I know. I checked,” she said, pursing her lips.

He frowned. “Wait, so then—”

She sighed, clicked her fork daintily on her plate. “I started teaching you whatever else I thought would fill up that enormous space in your brain hours ago. Which is, pretty much, whatever else class’ syllabus even you _don’t_ take.” She grinned at him, a mischievous look on her face. “Now you can walk into any class and ace, see?” He huffed a breath of laughter at that.

“Mr. Stilinski, you may now thank me with utmost gratefulness for upgrading you to a worthy level of intelligence in the, give or take, two months you’ve given me.”

“Thank you, Lydia Martin, Ms. World closeted genius,” he said, voice muffled over the savoury pasta. His eyes twinkled. She mock-puffed with pride, her light laugh equally light.

 

Stiles didn’t realise it, but he had forgotten entirely about his third, fourth and fifth baths altogether in the time Lydia was at his house, that day.

============0=============

Stiles woke up, in the middle of a Saturday night, with a realisation. He looked around at his familiar bedroom, a tinge of wrongness nicking at him. He caressed the soft bedding, the rumpled sheets, thought it through. He knew why it felt so wrong, so off.

All the photographs of him and Xxxxx had been removed.

He blinked at the information, then immediately cast it out of his mind again. He lay back down and drifted back into dreams.

============0=============

There was no sound.

Stiles looked at the wooden boat he was sitting on, the waters around frigid and still. He peered around. He was in a small, crescent boat, the planks beneath his feet creaking. The shallow frame of the boat was ridged with veins of petals, white and fading lines. He moved his feet, and a clonking sound emerged by his feet. His eyes trailed down: there was a thin, elongated wooden oar lying by his feet. Around him, the air was blowing around him, cooling. The skies were dark, but day was breaking. He could see the spread of red and orange hues settling, mixing into the slices of the sky, opening up the clouds into light. He exhaled, his breath being swept out by the wind. 

It was haunting, but beautiful. 

Darkness and light mingled, deeply intertwined. The full moon was set in the backdrop, pulsing, as if it were alive, as light slowly began to coat the darker hues of the sky. 

_Srrrrrr-_

A scratching sound. He flinched, pulled abruptly from the serenity of the moment, and looked around for the sound. It had been right beside him. Panic bubbled in his chest. He slowly grabbed the oar by his feet, pulling it up and holding it in a defensive position. 

_Srrrrrr-_

There it was, again. He stilled, ears perking, eyes unseeing in the shadowed light. There. He looked to the right side of the boat. _Srrrrr-_ The sound erupted again. Slowly, breathing quietly, he creaked his knees into a crouch, mindful of the boat’s balance. He leaned forward, squinting in the semi-darkness. 

_Srrrrrrrrrrr-_

His heart thudded wildly, as careful fingers crept over the edges of the boat, his head still on level with the shallow height of the boat. He slowly crept his head over, inch by inch, eyes looking straight at the water.

He blinked.

There was nothing but his own frightful reflection, blinking back at him. He rose from his hunched position, brows now furrowed. He looked closer. The reflection automatically enlarged, peering closer at him. He drew back, and the reflection did the same. 

He retreated back into the safety of the boat. Fingers lax, still confused. He looked up at the sky. It remained the same, the contrasting elements of white and black intermingling into gray intermediates, oozing across the large canvas of the sky. He looked back down on the boat—

Words had been scratched clearly into the side of the boat on his own end. He flinched back, stumbling, the boat rocking with the movement, sloshing water up into the cold air. Stiles’ eyes never left the markings that had suddenly appeared. He took in the peeled surface of the wood curling up into thin strips from someone’s nails, the carving steadily gazing at him. A cold shiver ran down his spine. 

‘ _Stiles_ ’, it read, the deep scratches ingrained into the hard wood, ‘ _look at the sky._ ’

Gulping, fear a lump in his throat, he peered up at the sky. He waited. And waited. ‘What…?’ he thought, as the silence and the water’s lapping motions washed at his ears. It was the same dark beauty it ever was, then—

A million lanterns, rising up to meet the endless depths of the sky.

Stiles gasped, eyes widening. The bright lights painted pinpricks of brightness within the grooves of his eyes, conferring bursts of the colour on his pupils. There were hundreds, thousands, even, rising from nowhere, floating delicately up, their luminescence seeping into the hollows of his world, and adding their brilliance to them. He stared, agape, a warm feeling unfurling abruptly in his chest, pouring over the gaps in them.

He was entranced; his hands loosened, something in him grappling, struggling, and then finally stilling. He just breathed, and took in the sight.

He never looked away.

============0=============

Derek’s hand trailed across’ Stiles forehead, hands drifting and soothing warmth as black, black tendrils flowed under his skin, up his arms. The pain he was taking from Stiles seared, hurt, but it was nothing compared to how Stiles’ expression eventually smoothed out, peaceful. 

Whatever the boy was dreaming about, he hoped it was peaceful, was a break from the shrivelling edges of his reality. 

Derek paused in breath, looking at Stiles in the darkness. Even after removing the pain he didn’t remove his hand. He caressed the face, lightly, gently, like the thing in his hands was precious, was so, so delicate. 

He looked at the lashes of Stiles’ eyes, dark and stark against the fairness of his skin. Looked at the parted lips, the vulnerable edges of them, soft. He trailed fingers over the edge of Stiles’ jaw, the scar marring his neck. The skin was marble-cold. 

Derek pressed his lips to the skin atop Stiles’ forehead, dark and hooded eyes now clenched, fraught with grief. He wished he could touch Stiles’ pain, could remove it, make it latch onto him instead. The boy on the bed was a fragile shell, a small gentle thing, and Derek yearned to soothe it, to heal it, but he could only remove physical pain. His lips on the skin was a small lapse of a moment, a caress in its own way, brief, but through it Derek tried to convey his sorrow, and the heaviness of his heart. It still didn’t feel enough, like the world had its jaw wide and was swallowing Stiles whole, and Derek was on the losing end, fighting to grasp him back in his arms. 

He was already out of the window when Stiles finally opened his eyes.

============0=============


	5. Collapse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little update: I will be taking a week or two off due to a busy schedule up ahead! Sorry in advance. Also, thank you all for the lovely comments, it's very refreshing to see debates and discussions in the comments' section, seeing as how the story tends to place readers in grey areas of consideration. 
> 
> As usual, warnings for triggery content: please initiate self-care should the story affect you in any negative way.

* * *

  _“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.” _

–F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

* * *

 

By the moment he stepped out of his house, the car was already parked by his house, a single hunter at the driver’s seat and three werewolves lounging casually on the back seats. He paused, looked at the car, and squinted, disbelieving. Allison was smiling sweetly at him through the front glass, waving in greeting, and beckoning him over. Stiles looked to the road, considering, then walked over.

As the rest of the werewolves saw him tromping over, they started waving too, smiling goofily —especially Isaac— like they were all kindergarten mates. Stiles blinked, frowned in confusion. He opened the door next to the driver’s seat, entered the car. 

Voices in greetings, yowling and laughter from the back as Erica, Isaac and Boyd half-wrestled, half-waved. Stiles turned to the back, raised a single brow. He looked back at Allison, and she shrugged her shoulder, a grin on her face. 

“Morning cupcakes,” he said, refraining from provide commentary on their mental ages as he pulled his seatbelt across his chest and locked the buckle in tightly. He settled in more carefully into his seat, careful of his still drying hair —he’d done a lot of showering that morning— and was still discomforted without the familiar rumble of his baby Jeep. The rumbling had almost become a signature of his, an imprint of Stiles. This vehicle, on the other hand, was a sleek black, and the fabric of the seat was plushy and classy. It felt odd. 

“Morning tiger,” Erica replied loudly back from behind him, laughing as Isaac kicked at her. Stiles didn’t need to look back to know the three behind them were hazardous to traffic all the same. He mock-sighed in exasperation, shook his head to Allison as he gestured a thumb back at the toddlers behind him. She laughed in response. 

The ride there was filled with casual conversation, belying the tense feeling growing in Stiles’ gut and the awkward, unnatural atmosphere of having four kids he’d never travelled to school with before in a single vehicle with him. He wasn’t used to company to school, often driving his baby to school by himself. 

But at the same time, the company soothed his frayed nerves, dragging him along smoothly as he soon forgot the daunting and upcoming school day. The silliness of the pack, Allison’s warm presence… Everyone was there, acting as naturally as they could, as if picking up Stiles directly from his home to school was an everyday occurrence. A warmth seeped into his heart, as he looked around to his friends. He knew he was being pampered.

As they rounded to the parking lot and the car stilled, the conversation slowly died down to a halt, and everyone grabbed their bags.

It felt odd exiting a car with Allison, Isaac, Erica and Boyd on his first day back to school. He looked around, at the students piling into the building he’d known his whole high school life, at the drawn out faces and heavy school bags, tucked with books. It was a sight he surprisingly missed. The simplicity of attending school, like everything had reverted back to a norm, comforted him. 

The rest caught him eyeing the school. He looked away quickly, tightening his bag straps, acting as normal as he could. The nerves were starting to come back, a intense buzzing running through his limbs, straining them to jittery, awkward motions. He licked his lips nervously. 

“First class’ is Economics, Stiles,” Erica said, eyes wide, head tilted. She casually walked ahead of him and looked back, expectant, gesturing with her chin in a forward motion. “Come on, let’s go." 

The words snapped him out of his thoughts and he stumbled after her as she walked away quickly. The others caught up as well, walking along with him, crowding him while giving him ample space to breathe. He noticed the weird movement, like they had just simply walked in a fashion they seem a little too protective, a little too precautionary. He considered giving them the I-see-what-you’re-doing squint, but decided to let it slide. They were probably just worried about him, and he relented the gesture.

It only got overwhelming and exceedingly awkward as they entered his first class. He sat down on a empty seat, and the rest piled over one another to seats all around him. Stiles ran a hand down his face, kept it there, sighed. He opened his eyes to the sound of clacking heels, one that got closer and closer to his right. 

“Boyd, do you mind if I take this seat?” Lydia asked, her limpid green eyes wide, her lips pursed. She was no longer wearing her glasses. Boyd merely shrugged, and stood up to let her sit beside him. 

Wait.

Stiles frowned at the sight. He opened his mouth, paused, then closed it. His brows crumpled into deep thought. He stared into her knowing gaze, opened his mouth, and closed it again. 

He ran a hand down his face. 

“That’s it, Stiles,” she said to him, looking back at the board as Mr. Finstock entered the classroom. “Silence is always appreciated.”

“Alright class, today we learn the concept of scarcity, something so important, without it, your bare ass would be on the street begging for pine nuts on a raw sunny day,” his voice boomed, eliciting laughter from the class. He turned a serious face to his students. “Hey, pipe down already. Especially you, Greenberg. Do I look like I’m joking to you, Greenberg? Jesus…”

He looked over the class, searching, and abruptly settled onto Lydia. He walked towards her. 

“Ms Martin, what in the heavens are you doing here? You're not even taking this class.” He said in a gruff voice, his hands on his hips, eyeing her in a confused manner.

Great, Stiles muttered under his breath, covering his face in his arm. Awesome. 

“I elected to further my supplementary education from the best, Mr. Finstock,” she said sweetly, voice saccharine, as everyone drew their attention to her. She smiled, flipped her pen, looked back at everyone’s gazes. Stiles shrunk further back into his seat. 

He was being pampered and babied beyond belief. 

Mr. Finstock smacked his lips, squinted, then shrugged as he turned back to the whiteboard. As he passed by Stiles’ table on the way back, he bent down close to him. Stiles flinched back instinctively, heart thudding. 

The coach caught the movement, and frowned deeply. Stiles jittered nervously, anxiety revving up further as he peered into the Coach’s eyes. He swallowed, tried not to look away, tried not to let the fear turn into a panic attack.

“Look, Stiles. If you’re feeling unwell or anything, just let me know, okay? I’m aware of the situation,” he said softly, nodding slowly to Stiles, a hand on the desk now, his whistle hanging from his neck, close to Stiles’ face. “If you need to leave, just say the word.”

Stiles bit his lip, leaning back from the proximity, the crowding feeling bursting in his chest, like he was trapped, the shadows seeping into his vision. He clenched his fist in his lap and nodded once, a jerky, controlled motion. He honestly didn’t know what the Coach knew, or what information the crew had fed the unknowing human officials or teachers, but he just nodded profusely, wanting him to step away from his space. 

Concern radiated from the teacher standing before him, and Stiles dreaded to even imagine what he knew, whether he could see the caked sludge cracking through his skin from the inside, oozing out like black blood, snaking along the surface of his veins, the tender tubes. Dirty, so dirty… He was wounded tight like a live wire, electricity buzzing, ready to burst, voices erupting in his head, begging for him to move away, to scramble backwards and away— 

“Mr. Finstock,” a voice sounded, a hand wrapped around the Coach’s arm, pulling him back gently, away from Stiles.  

As the space around became more breathable, Stiles’ vision slowly cleared. He glanced up nervously into a pair of knowing brown eyes.

Isaac.

“Ah, no, sorry,” Mr Finstock muttered, casting a concerned look back at Stiles’ slightly trembling frame, his laboured breaths. Stiles hid his face in his arms, clenched his eyes shut and counted in prime numbers. Perspiration coated his forehead, his skin frazzled from the almost-contact. 

Mr Finstock walked back up to the front of the class and scribbled the word “Scarcity” across the board in big, chunky letters. He paused, then shook his head, and continued. “Alright, class, can anyone tell me what the hell scarcity is? Yes, alright, how about you, Ms. Reyes, the one with the cell in hand?”

Mr. Finstock walked right up to his left, standing at Erica’s table corner.

Erica peered up from her phone abruptly as if caught, and stuck the device back into her pencil case. Through the gap in his arm, Stiles saw the quick scramble of text Erica was typing. He immediately thought of Derek, of what he would think when he received a message from Erica about the almost-fit of his first lesson, just because a teacher was talking to him. 

Stiles shuddered a deep breath out, sighed miserably.

Stiles wasn’t a fool. He had guessed that Derek had probably sent the pack trio as personal bodyguards today, in his stead. He imagined the hulking figure sulking as he sat on the coach, hunched over, looking through reports and accounts of the Supernatural, then stalking said Supernatural, all the while still worrying about the whole lot of them. The clear, viridescent green-eyed depths, deep and knowing, swirling in ocean-coloured swamps and clear skies. Stiles thought back to when they crouched over documents, —or more of Stiles crouching over documents, and Derek sulk-standing in the corner giving occasional comments— working out the hideout of a witches’ coven, or the Druid pack’s estimated numbers, or even another Werewolf pack's weaknesses, and their primary motivations for invading territory. Stiles would always vocalise his thoughts as he pored over the documents of yet another three-person murder-sacrifice thing, trying to identify patterns, trends, loose ends, or loop holes, while Derek accompanied him quietly, listening. 

In those days, things were simpler. Stiles commandeered the riddle-solving, and Derek the action-solving. Things were good, clear-cut. As Supernaturals popped out all over town, Stiles sought to learn about them, to understand their natures, and he would even occasionally consult Deaton, so much so that the pack had come to trust him, had even come close to accepting him as pack —Stiles still wasn’t very sure about that—, but at the very least, as a friend, a comrade. 

Stiles suddenly recalled dark hair, and steel-edged glass green eyes. A moving mouth, sparked with gritted teeth, inking terrible truths into his ears, invading and terrifying, gripping him, cutting through flesh, even as Derek sat five feet away from him in a small hospital room, even as Stiles remained untouched. 

Stiles quickly cast the thought away from his mind. He didn't want to confront anything, only wanted to forget.

Erica cleared her voice, and Stiles gazed upwards, grounding himself back to reality. It was safer here sometimes, with distractions pulling him away from the darkness, from the starkness of the truth, that something he always turned away from, pulled back from the scalding hot water before he got incorrigibly hurt, before he confronted it and could never un-know, un-learn it ever again— 

it’s all my faul— 

“Ah, scarcity refers to limitations?” Erica’s clear voice rung in the air. She looked sheepishly at Mr. Finstock. 

Stiles blinked back the mild tremor that had ridden up to his shoulders, reined it back in tightly. He counted in prime numbers backwards from a thousand. He felt like he was gripping a glass shard in his fist, clenching tightly as hot, hot blood pooled down his arm, gathered at the edge of his elbow, and fell to the ground, the ruby thick and clotted, dark and slimy. His thoughts were wild, feral things, blasts of flames that would burn him if he got too close. He gripped tightly on the glass shard to control the wild things, to gather a semblance of normalcy, a taste of who he was before, a shadow chasing after blinking lights. 

It was all so pathetic, so painful.

He needed to stop thinking, but Stiles was never very good at that: at halting thought. He didn’t want to remember, only wanted to run away, as far as he could, sprinting along a bleak horizon. He only wanted to grip the glass shard of control as securely as he could, although it slashed deep into his hand, cut through the vulnerable flesh, nerves, veins, arteries like a knife to butter. Even then, he still held on to the lifeline, watched wide eyed as blood ran like peaceful rain rivulets down his arms, like raindrops coating his windowpane in a storm. 

Except he wasn’t going to fall asleep this time. The pain flashed and pulsed, alive, soaking. It was terrifying, but riveting— 

“Mr. Stilinski?”

He jerked, almost jumped, stumbled sideways out of his chair and onto the floor, hitting with impact, his bag still slung over his shoulders, tumbling down to the ground with him. Hands immediately descended on him, the skin-to-skin contact scalding hot, a sharp blade sinking into the surface of his skin, and Stiles scrambled backwards from it.

“P-please wait, I-I can’t, s-sorry, sorry—” he was saying, blathering, mumbles and trails of nonsensical words pouring forth, heart banging, skin coated with a sheen of nervous perspiration. He was terrified, and he was sorry, so sorry, the feeling descending quickly, his eyes pooling over with nerve-wracking wetness, coating his lashes dark, his eyes darting around unseeing, his whole frame trembling, rooted to the floor, and the hands promptly moved away, leaving him. 

Moments later, as he blinked away the substance pooling over his eyes, blurring his vision, a head of blonde and soft, worried eyes appeared in front of him. 

“Stiles?” Erica said, calmly and gently. Mr. Finstock was standing behind her, backing away, his hands warily hanging up in the air, away from Stiles’ skin. 

Stiles blinked the tears away, wiping the tracks off his face absently as he tried to contain the illogical fear springing up in him, building in an insurmountable torrent that threatened to consume him alive. He shook his head, clenched his fists.

“E-Erica,” he managed, breaths laboured like a panic attack, but not quite, “p-please.” 

He looked up at her through terrified tear-filled eyes, through wet, dark lashes, begging her to understand, and she nodded resolutely, grabbed her backpack from her desk, holding the top part of the bag and offering the end to him. 

He grabbed the lifeline tightly, and she lugged him up smoothly through the bag as a bridge, covering him from sight. 

“Mr. Finstock—“ she started.

“Yeah, hey, I get it. Get the kid outta here.” The coach cast worried eyes at the hunched form, the dark brown hair obscuring the front of his face, but unable to hide the tremor along his shoulders, up to the roots of his hair. He’d never seen Stiles like this before, had always only seen him laughing and goofing around, the smart Lacrosse kid that didn’t have the physical stock, but always tried, always added spark. Finstock shook his head, heaved a deep breath. He’d known the kid for so long, and this sight honestly spooked him to his bones, worried him intensely, the way Stiles was hunching up on himself, face obscured from sight, shivering.

He flicked his hand to the door, gesturing for Erica to move, quickly. 

Erica nodded, and brought Stiles out of the classroom. 

Outside, she guided him swiftly to the parking lot outside, and opened the door to a waiting car. She jumped into the back seat, pulling the black bag pack with him clutching its end along. Stiles scrambled inside, chest still heaving, the irrational fear still pounding painfully in his head, like sirens whirring about, knocking up the walls. In the back seat, he automatically curled up on himself, taking up a corner, and hid his head, letting his wet gasps sound aloud in the car. 

Erica reached out behind him, closing the car door shut. 

Stiles let the tears pool over his eyes and fall out, self-loathing rising up in his chest, bubbling to the surface like hot, scalding acid, acrid and salty. So weak, his mind lashed at himself, so weak, lasting barely even fifteen minutes of school. 

He mindlessly breathed into his arms, his jacket, lumping the soft material together in his hands and slamming his face into the fabric, breathing in fear and hot, wet air. He didn’t understand what was happening, didn’t want anything like this to happen, thought about the others in the class peering down at him, at the cracking, aching scars on his skin, his neck, seeing through his core for the dirt he was, for the lowly thing he was. 

Stiles gripped the jacket tightly, violently shaking now, almost felt like he was smothering himself. Maybe then all his problems would drift away—

“Stiles,” a voice from the front seat, and Stiles had not even seen, had not even noticed the person seated in front as he was stumbling in, as he was hyperventilating. His head whipped up, and he peered into those glass-green depths, the set jaw. 

Derek.

“Oh my god,” Stiles rasped, pooled the jacket into his face again, shaking so badly it felt more like the car was standing on an earthquaked ground, tilting off the edge of the world. He shook his head. The last person he had wanted to ever see, the someone who reminded him of words, scalding hot words, trailing into his ears, searing like tattoos onto his brain, indelible scars he could no longer scrape off.

“You’re okay now, Stiles,” Erica added beside him, hovering at a safe distance, petting the black bag pack linking their hands, as if she could soothe him through the indirect connection. “We got you.”

“Stiles, breathe,” Derek said, turning towards him now from the front seat, eyes rooting and grounding. Stiles slowly let the jacket gather around on his curled knees, and wrapped arms around legs pulled tightly to his chest. He stared deeply into Derek’s eyes, still jerking from hitched breaths.

Derek purposefully inhaled a deep breath in, and Stiles caught on, slowly emulated the action, doing the same, dragging out the breath. As Derek let out a breath, Stiles copied it shakily, tremors still emanating from his frame in rocky waves. They did this for seconds, and then minutes, Stiles’ eyes never leaving Derek’s sturdy ones.

It helped: the panic soon spooled away gradually, falling away, reducing him to a hollowed calm.

“O-Okay…” Stiles drew one more deep breath in, let it out with the words, “I’m okay.” 

He blinked away residual tears, bringing up his jacket sleeve to roughly wipe at his face. Now that the panic was gone, he felt foolish, felt stupid, for acting so illogically, for casting so much burden onto the others. Derek and Erica looked at him, attentive, peering, checking if he was truly fine. 

“Stiles, we have time. We can stay here, for as long as you need to, before we send you home,” Erica said beside him, patting the bag softly, tone gentle. Stiles looked up, grit his teeth, now anger —at himself, at his weakness— taking over. He felt the tight straps of his school bag over his shoulders, at the heaviness of textbooks and notes chunky in his bag: hints of his desperate clutches at normalcy, at regaining the boy he once was. He’d barely lasted all of fifteen minutes, had lost so much to the darkness already, and now even this was being denied to him, was being wrenched away from him. 

“I can continue with school, Erica,” he said, clutching his jacket. He sounded almost defensive, his stance stiff. He tried to hide the despair and anguish in his voice, but it echoed loudly in the smallness of the car’s cold metal walls. He felt hot tears, and fought hard against them. This time, they pooled urged by a well of frustration, helplessness and most of all, anger. 

He was so, so angry at himself. 

“Stiles—“

“Wait, and you.” Stiles said, voice still raspy from breathing, from panicking. He turned to Derek who was still gazing impassively at him, eyes deep, “How long have you even been outside watching?”

“Since the beginning, when Allison pulled in with her car,” Derek said.

Stiles eyed him. He thought of a million responses, but in the end just sighed, relenting the protective —over-protective, in his opinion— gesture. He suddenly felt tired, like all the of world’s energy had been sapped from him. His bones hung like lead, and he rested his head on his knee, eyes falling shut. 

He just wanted to rest for a while, to block out everything. He wanted respite from the aching, the constant gnawing, the endless chase of flickering and dying lights. 

He could feel the wetness of his lashes on his cheeks, like drenched feathers painting the hollow skin. He was so drained, emptied out, a void expanding wide inside him, siphoning off the bright edges of his soul, bleeding out the maelstrom inside. 

He didn’t know how, but seconds converged into minutes, coalesced into a fumbling melting pot of swirls, indistinguishable from one another. Time warbled. He soon drifted off into a small doze, and decided not to move even though he felt the vehicle rumble below him, slowly driving off from the school. 

============0=============

They started out slowly, the callings.

For the first few moments, he felt stirrings in his chest, like fading clouds drifting on a cold wind, stardust trickling through his thudding organs, whispering life. The feeling ran warm and familiar, the scent catching, like a hot, warm body pulsing in his vision, breathing in his ears. Large brown hazel depths peering into his eyes, lashes long and stark, dark against pallid skin. Parted lips, a tongue coming up absently to trail over the wet buds, spreading it open wider. Clenching and unclenching fists, long, slender fingers, jittery. 

A musical-box tinkling softly in his head, enticing, creeping over his skin. Like a witch’s spell, Scott peered his head up at the feeling, the calling. It was close, it was like warm breathable fabric, stardust blinking before him, the scent musty, familiar and suddenly so alluring, tantalising.  

 _Mate,_ his Wolf growled to him, snapping its jaws. _Mate._  

Scott closed his eyes, willed away the red, the Wolf pawing at his heels inside him, scraping off his humanity. He shut the Wolf in a tight, enclosed space, chained it up with locks, bound it in iron. He clutched the pen in his hand, put away the animal thoughts in his head, surged up from deep dark seas. 

_Stiles._  

He recalled his best friend, thinking beyond what his Wolf perceived: the innate traits, the memories they had together, before. The boy who snatched up his baseball bat, climbed into windows, practiced Lacrosse with him overnight. The friend who rustled dark bushes with him at four am, chasing after police cars and midnight adventures. The best friend who’d let him copy his homework, who had even tutored him, who held Scott close to his heart, often worried for him, trusted him, even after he’d turned into a monster, a creature wholly of the ink-black night, and Stiles got hurt time and again because of him. Even then, Stiles was still a constant presence by his side, surging through winds together with him, through storms together.

He never truly lamented, only sought to protect his loved ones, which included Scott. 

(Or had included Scott.)

He ignored the tremble running up his arms, the fear at finally having to face Stiles, face the consequences of his actions. The guilt in his heart, because _sorry_ wasn’t even enough, would never be enough, not this time. The disappointment in others’ eyes as looked at him, the sorrow, the disgust, and it still wasn’t enough to atone for what he had done. 

He swallowed, lips pale, forehead sweating. Weeks in Eichen House had not been enough to absolve anything, and only echoed the guilt through his body, the screech reverberating, ringing through his head. School, with its constant buzzing, often only made it worse, anchored the guilt like a deep sitting boulder inside his being, sewed nicks into the inside of his skin, the pains of the sinned. 

He wasn’t supposed to be in school today, or any day, yet, but something was calling him here. An inkling, a feeling—

“Scott?” Danny asked, approaching him from a distance behind. “You okay?” Scott looked up slowly. School was just beginning, the bell ringing. He hadn’t even entered the building yet, was still a distance yet.

He nodded numbly. 

Danny frowned. “You sure, dude? You don’t look so well. Haven’t been seeing you around at all.”

Scott shook his hand, waved away the words. “I’m fine.” He settled his bag over his shoulder, focused on the the vehicle parked outside the school. He’d managed to pick up the recognisable scents emanating from the car, one particularly strong, the smell heady, reminded him of warmth and blanketed forts, lying on the grass in the forest edge, glancing at the stars under the Full Moon. It smelled confusing, a mixture of emotions clashing within him, two roiling heads gnashing at one another, with none emerging as the victor.

_Stiles_ ’ scent.

Stiles smelled like home, friend, pack and mate all at once, even from a considerable distance away. It was comfortable, soothing, alluring. Scott grit his teeth against the calling, the cloudy feeling inching up his gut. He couldn’t even imagine what meeting him would be like, how he would control himself against the entirety of Stiles in front of him, real flesh, warm skin and clear hazel eyes. 

He dreaded it, dreaded to see what carnage his Wolf had left behind, whether Stiles could ever find it in his heart to forgive him, forgive anything, but at the same time he desired it badly, meeting Stiles, the Wolf in him clawing, trying to get to the surface. He struggled internally, heart pulsing. It was agonising. 

Did Stiles know he was here, in school, that they could possibly meet? Was Stiles going to finally pay him back whatever punishment he deserved? Scott held on to the thought, wished desperately for Stiles to think up of something worthy Scott do to atone for the things he’d done, wished somehow that Stiles would peer at him in disgust, eyes steel cold, and lash out at him, cause him the same magnitude of pain and torture he’d inflicted on his best friend.

He wished he could make it up somehow, could atone. No matter what he had to do, no matter what Stiles wanted to inflict on him, wanted to make him do, he’d do it in a heartbeat. 

The fear clawed through his heart, pounding violently. He needed it, the _pain_ , a contorted payback. He needed an inkling of something he could do to lift the heaviness of his heart, his soul, the brightness now faded to a dullness.

He was no True Alpha. He couldn’t be. 

Something had already been _fractured_ , ever since that night. Pieces lay being swept around in his chest, fragments of something that had broken had strained under the pressure of his mistake, his sin, and just _cracked_ open. He earnestly wished away the blood red eyes, desperately wished away the dominating Wolf shaking through his head, concocting whirlwinds in his mind. But it didn’t leave, remained, erasable, a painful reminder of who he had become, who the monster he would always be. It was a fitting punishment, but it wasn’t enough.

Nothing could be enough.

The scent was getting a little closer now, as the lesson started, as he approached the building in heavy, stiff steps. He swallowed. A feeling in his bones told him where Stiles was exactly, the seat in the classroom five classrooms away from the entrance. He was at Coach’s Economics class. 

It would be his first lesson in about two months. 

He wondered how he looked like now, whether he still carried the same back pack, wore the same cloth jacket, whether he was still clothed in plaid. He wondered if those hazel eyes were now filled with loathing and anger, whether he could cast hateful razor eyes at Scott, whether he would hit him, or ignore his existence altogether, casting Scott out of his life. 

Thoughts pooled in his head, messy and conjoining. It helped ground his Wolf, stopped Scott from leaping up the steps and sprinting down the halls to where Stiles was. The scent was still heady, strong, smelled warm, comforting and painfully familiar, a smell he’d known and had imprinted on brain ever since he’d met Stiles in the sandbox when they were both five. 

He was still wallowing in his own thoughts, zooming in the the sounds in the classroom five rooms away when he heard a clatter. He frowned at the sudden noise, stilled. He strained to listen to what others were saying, but it was too far away, with too much noise being caught in between. He couldn’t make out what was happening.

His frown grew deeper as Stiles’ scent still grew even more closer, like he was physically moving closer. In seconds, like he would anytime appear from the closed set of doors a distance in front of him, it grew fresher, more alive, more alluring—

Scott turned tail and ran.

He hid his head, swallowed hard, closed his eyes tightly shut, sprinted so hard he couldn’t feel his legs, could hear protests from behind him, people he was banging into and knocking over, uncaring. He knew they were drifting further and further apart now, as he pushed others away, feet thumping on the ground, Danny’s concerned shouts far behind him. The growing absence, the loss was a wide gaping hole in his chest, like the light had seeped entirely out of his world, his surroundings descending into darkness and greys, monotone and muted. It was physically painful, a sharp nicking feeling dragging down his skin, the discomfort loud and shocking, the emotional wave of longing slamming into him like a flood. He mourned the absence, the hole it felt behind. He twisted the fabric at his chest, claws digging hard into his skin, drawing blood. 

Scott swallowed, grit his teeth, continued running until his legs eventually gave out, until he lay slumped on the side of a foreign, unknown road, legs pumping and numb.

He didn’t let the hot salty pools in his eyes fall.

============0=============

“I called it,” Isaac was saying, kicking his legs at the cafeteria table, looking at others. He said it simply, was not being smug, shrugged. “I kind of told ya.”

“We’re all not very impressed by your obvious observation, Isaac,” Lydia said, “but thank you for your input into the matter. We’ll take it into consideration.” 

Allison sighed, placed her both hands on the table, garnering the others’ attention.

“Okay. I’m worried,” she admitted, “Is he going to be okay alone with Derek? Maybe you should’ve stayed with them, Erica. Things didn’t go over so well the last time they were alone.”

Erica glanced at her from the opposite side of the table. She honestly had the same thoughts, but Derek had promised to stay out of dangerous waters. He’d been worrying like a fifty-year-old for centuries now, after all. Perhaps letting him take care of Stiles a little would soothe his constant brooding and worrying. 

“Don’t worry, Stiles can handle Derek,” Boyd said. 

There was a long silence, followed by laughter. As the Weres snorted hard at the image, at the fact it was Boyd saying it, Lydia placed a comforting hand on Allison’s lap, patting. Allison glanced at her, saw the comforting gesture for what it was. _Don’t worry,_ Lydia mouthed to her quietly over the chatter of the cafeteria, _they’ll be fine._

Allison nodded, shot her back a smile of thanks. 

She hoped Lydia was right.

============0=============

Stiles could see it in his mind’s eye. The taste of bile, of sickness in the smothered air; tendrils of heat, darkness, thick, suffocating, wild and lashing slithering through the haze, the smoke of poison, of thorns licking in his lungs, of waves plundering down his throat. The smell of acrid acid spewing out of his tongue, vibrations through the air that echoed, silent, empty; glass bullets —tears?— that ricocheted against the bunching of muscle, of touch, hand, steel-flesh, crashing, splintering into shards of nothing, of useless winds, against the slickness of his captor’s skin. Words had been nothing. The long piercing whimper from his bruised strangled throat had risen along his tongue into the dirt-coloured air, desperate and low and keening, like a small haunted animal lying between vice-gripped steel, blood making through its furs along skin, along the tiny thundering of its beating heart in its trembling chest into the rubbish-strewn ground, sinking and dripping into the soil, into the earth, crimson, glittering; life. 

_It’s your fault, Stiles._

Flashes of white, of blackness, of emptiness danced their macabre twirls and whorls in front of his eyes, tinting his vision and strewing his sight with battered edges of memories. _That night_ blinked, twitching, shook in his mind’s eye. It was everywhere he went, every moment he closed his eyes. He no longer met the neutral dark silence of his eyelids; the back of the skin-worn covers, his facial structures. There were only the flashes now.

_You deserved it._

There was only the inhale of _want_ breathing upon his face, upon his clenched eyes, fists. He could feel it; the stirring, the torrent of blinding bright malice underneath the touch deceiving hide of his captor’s human skin. Finger-steel extensions of the creature latched upon his wrists, razor-edged claws pressing indents into his skin, crumbling cells into screaming veins. 

_Didn’t even fight, didn’t even try._

Distantly he could feel a leaden weight press onto his legs —already incapacitated, but just to be sure the lion snapped his neck first— and then hands, pressing relentlessly all over his body, a mockery of comfort, of lov-

He blinked rapidly, eyes growing hot as they prickled. Hands reached up to press palms against his closed eyes. The hole in him yawned wide and then bigger, gaping, insatiable and endless. He let his head fall, breath hitching and chest heaving as the flashes haunted him, gnawing into his skull and his ribs, ghoul-like. 

_So stupid. So_ weak _._

_Stop_ , he shook his head, covered up his ears, applying pressure, hands turning white. But the voices were in his head, echoing and growing. _StopstopstopstopSTOP_

 

He screamed—

============0=============

The coal black of his lashes crashed and ebbed periodically, thrashing wildly. 

That was the only sign Derek got before Stiles jerked awake, shouting, arms flailing, a wild feral mad thing, eyes unseeing, still trapped in an unhinged black dream.

“Stiles!” Derek called out immediately, arms coming around the flurry of motions, the uncontrolled edges. He held him down, grapple with the mess of limbs, the terrified eyes. He brought arms around Stiles, containing him, crumpling the disjointed wild movements into Stiles’ own chest.

Minutes later, he still didn’t let go, held on tightly as Stiles started to calm down, fear still rippling off him in shudders and tremors, eyes blinking bitter salt into Derek’s skin. Stiles crashed his forehead into Derek’s shoulder, heaving, winding down from the nightmare, winding down from the pain. The air was saturated with so much fear that Derek could feel it piercing into his lungs, into ice-cold breaths. 

He had never seen Stiles so scared. He felt the trembling into his shoulder, the hitches of breath escaping. Derek’s arms were still around Stiles, protecting him from himself, but he seemed to out of it to notice the skin-to-skin contact he loathed. Derek thought to how small, how vulnerable Stiles felt wrapped up in his arms, how little left Derek could embrace, or even clutch on to. It felt empty, almost, like the boy in his arms was disappearing slowly, pale, pallid skin growing more transparent everyday, a gaping back hole swallowing him in increments, until Derek could no longer touch him, could no longer take away any pain.

His Wolf pulled black, inky poison from Stiles, travelling through the skin and into Derek’s veins, but it wasn’t enough, and perhaps would never be. Derek clenched his teeth, gritted at the ache in his bones, the hurt in his heart, and wrapped whatever comfort he could afford around Stiles, pulling him back from the abyss. The once larger-than-life teen no longer lit up in the boy’s unseeing eyes, or his wet, hitching breaths. 

Derek remembered, dreamt.

He remembered the casual, knowing looks Stiles gave him sometimes, while the pack was poring over strategies and new Supernaturals. The lingering eyes, skating across his body, back to his eyes, then casually looking away. In those moments, he remembered how those warm depths gazed into his soul, wrapping up the edges and seeding light into them, slowly.  

Derek sometimes put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, as naturally as he could make it seem, leaning into his back as he pretended to looking over Stiles’ head to the police documents and piles of newspaper cuttings sprawled over the desk. Stiles would flash him a brief but knowing look, lips quirking, relaxed fingers crossed. He didn’t shrug off the touch, left it there.

Sometimes, Stiles jumped on the loft’s couch, sitting intentionally close beside him. He liked testing the waters, like a curious child, poking at something new, something foreign. Derek didn’t even know if Stiles liked him. He just knew Stiles loved the game, found it new and bursting with colour, indulged in it, participated. Stiles would gradually move closer on the couch until Derek squirmed uncomfortably, and then he would skate away with a mischievous little laugh, and prop his legs up onto Derek’s lap. After, he would close his eyes contently and nap. 

In those moments, Derek never watched TV. He preferred watching Stiles.  

Nothing ever advanced. He knew Stiles’ interest was piqued, but their movements were too subtle, too quiet, to count for any commitment, or any evidence of anything forming between them. There were only these moments, these shifting glances, and small, knowing smiles. 

He didn’t know there would be a deadline, didn’t know Stiles’ soul would be crushed before he could even blink.

The last time he’d seen him, _before_ , Stiles was groaning over his bundles of red strings pinned on a board, grisly corpses littering the surface. He was flipping his pen, bitting it between soft lips, a frown on his face. Derek never moved from his spot on the chair. He just sat there, just stared at Stiles, at the lashes fanning his eyes, the lips moving over the pen, the eyes looking intently on mutilated parts like they were mere math puzzles. Stiles’ hand reached up to rub the back of his head, frustrated. He looked young, sometimes, like a boy. With those dark eyes, smooth skin, vibrant smile, Derek often subconsciously downplayed his age. But Stiles was already growing into adulthood, lithe limbs, chiseled jaw, and fairly strong shoulders juxtaposing the doe of his eyes, the brightness of his laugh. It was like looking at a swirling mix of childlike innocence and maturity; it boggled his mind. Derek would never admit it, but he loved Stiles like this, unknowing, absorbed, relaxed. It allowed one to peer into his depths, to look at the softness of his eyes, the slacked jaw, the length of his neck. Derek’s eyes trailed down his arm to the long slender digits of his fingers. Fingers that were shifting in and out of mussed, wild brown strands, hypnotic— 

“Like what you see, huh?” Stiles said, eyes now peering at him, grinning. Derek jerked slightly from the voice, a guilty expression poring over his face. He huffed in response, letting the natural exasperated look take over, rolled his eyes like it was nothing that he’d been caught. Staring. 

Again.

He then stood up, decided to take that as his cue to leave. He had been so embarrassed, so quick to shrug it off, to escape deep knowing eyes, the small little grin. He was out of the door before Stiles could say anything else, mouth still opened like he wanted to continue. Derek never heard what he said, left, heart thumping. It was one of the many regrets Derek would culminate, in his steel bank of guilt and what-ifs.

It was only when he was down the street that he realised it would be the first time Stiles ever said anything about the non-thing between them.

He had not realised at the time that it would also possibly be the last. 

============0=============


	6. Respite

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a longer chapter for y'all after the one week break :) This chapter's a little break before more plot arrives and things get really chaotic. Thank you all for the continuous support :) 
> 
> *gives out hot cookies for everyone before chapter begins*

* * *

_“It’s in our nature to want to forget truths that keep up awake at night.” _

_ —Fallout: New Vegas_

* * *

 

Stiles noticed his surroundings slowly, Derek around him, skin everywhere, a rumble underneath his curled feet. Things were shifting out from under him, the world spinning. Warmth shrouded him, grounding him even as it prickled and stabbed in ripples of hot metal needles. He heaved, his breaths coming in bursts of wet, wet sound, rasps that ran scalding in his throat. Beneath all his noise, he felt a chest moving against him, shoulders and arms and limbs, grasping the mess and rusty wires springing in unfurling coils from inside him.    

“D-Derek?” he mumbled, burrowing his forehead into the crook between a shoulder and an arm, blinking wet away from his face. He inhaled the scent, the warmth of protective bands wrapped around him, of a hand softly caressing his hair. He leaned into the touch, closed his eyes. He let blankness consume his mind, his thoughts, just savoured the anchor against his skin. It scalded, hurt, but it let that fall away to the back of his mind, put calm into the forefront. At this movement, Derek wrapped arms closer to Stiles, held on tight.

They didn’t move, just breathed against skin. 

“Stiles—“ a whisper above his head. 

“Let’s just,” Stiles rasped, muffled against Derek’s shirt, “s-stay here for a while, okay big guy?” He grasped the fabric under his hands a little more tightly, not daring to look up into eyes that encompassed the sea, not wanting to crumple under the weight. “Just for a while?”

He felt Derek nod above him as he heard a soft “okay”. At this, he threw away all thought and curled up against the other warm body, an organic living breathing thing that soothed away some of the pain. Stiles felt so small curled up in that space that Derek allowed him, like he had been wasting away for some time now, and only had come to realise just how much had faded, how much had crumbled away. A tiny dot resting on the endless plains of a big, big world.

Hands, moving slowly now, gentle, through the shirt of his back, to the locks of his hair; protective. He trembled under the touch, revelled in it as much as he could, earnestly desiring the human contact, that connection he’d been withdrawing from. 

Derek, and his knowing sea eyes.

He stared into darkness, blinked as tears poured forth. He’d been crying so much, lately, all control whipped out from under him. He was lost in raging seas, and even now was wrapped up in one. He breathed in the musky smell of Derek, the strength in his skin, and let blank tears fall from his eyes into Derek’s shirt. He’d enough of crying. He was done with it all, with all the fragmented pieces floated inside him, with all the cracked, jarred edges ripping into his flesh. 

He was determined: he was going to master himself. He was going to control the whirlpools in his mind, he was going to wrench it back, that thing he’d lost ever since—

He tightened his grip in Derek’s shirt.

Control.

Control.

_Control._

“Derek,” he said, removing his head from Derek’s shirt to peer into the soft, concerned depths of sea-green. 

“We’re going for a drive.”

============0=============

_ The chill that crept along his skin _

_ rivulets of rain; cascading, catching windowpanes _

_ dust-shadows of cars, metal trucks wheezing and whirring _

_ Splats of small pebbles pelting the metallic tang of the roof, _

_ blurring, smoking whiplashes of sprayed droplets from the _

_ wet sticky texture of black rubber tyres rammed  _

_ into the granite of the road _

_ Touch; the fear beating drums in his veins, his stricken blood _

_ His heart feint and still, with abated breath, old streaks of tears _

_ of frightened tense chills pervading his body. _

_ A swarm, a crowd, suffocating, _

_ smoking and wringing his lungs, _

_ plunging them into inky, forced depths _

_ sinking, struggling, _

_ arms tensing muscles, bunching, _

_ tears welling up in his eyes, hot and sticky, like the slickness _

_ of the rain invading _

_ his skin. _

============0=============

He took the wheel of Derek’s black camaro and drove. Roads winding to places far away, familiar landscapes and scenery fading into foreign greens and greys behind them. He didn’t turn to the quiet passenger beside him, just faced forward into blinking lights and darkening skies. He was glad Derek let him drive in silence, slinking into the background like he so often did. The rain was coming on again, clouds loud and heavy, and its drops pattered onto his car screen. It covered up the silence, blurred out their surroundings. 

He didn’t know how long they had been sitting there in silence, the engine revving up beneath them as the camaro glided across roads, but he was grateful for it. It was comfortable, almost, like he was in control of something for once. 

He chanced a glance over to Derek, who had been quiet for the length of the journey, and caught soft, drooping eyes. The rumble or the vehicle and the pitter-patter of the rain were lulling. Stiles caught the exhaustion on Derek’s face, the slack fingers, the eyes that were now gently closed. The soft exhales of breath, painting air faintly into the dark. He looked so young, hardened edges and features now toned down in rest. Stiles shot long glances at his werewolf companion in between watching the road. 

The second time, then. 

This was the second time he encountered a sleeping Derek. Stiles shook his head, almost smiling at the memory. The first time, it had been accidental, no doubt. Derek hadn’t trusted him enough at that point, when he’d just started solving cases and camping over at the loft because of how long they took. He relayed patterns and codes and ideas at bullet speed to Derek, who had been anxiously (though he would never admit the anxious bit) hovering about, trying to help. But Derek hadn’t understood half of what he’d been saying, only got even more frustrated when Stiles had to deliberately slow down to explain. 

He thought back, to—

============0=============

_[Before]_

“Stiles, I don’t know a word you’re using right now.”

Stiles glanced at the wolf, pausing midair with gesticulating hands, eyes questioning. Oh, he’d forgotten he was there, again. That dude that always blended into walls and shadows and stayed to hear every word he said aloud to himself. He would have taken time off to delve into that, but he was much too busy at the moment. 

“Just… the decomposition rates of the body, you know. They, ah, are mismatched, like, deliberately mismatched.” Stiles said casually leafing through more —borrowed— brown worn police files, red yarn strings flying everywhere. Then he saw it: a small squared greyscale identification photograph of a young brunette amidst a towering pile. He grabbed that other missing persons case fitting the victimisation pattern, and flung it up in the air with his hand, eyes going wide with excitement. 

“Yes, this!”

Derek hovered, his frame jittery a few feet away from Stiles, demeanour highly strung. 

“Stiles, what?”

Stiles leant down to read the small printed text of the report, speed-reading through the details and absorbing the contents quickly. Tick tock, no time to waste.

“Allografts recently performed from a cadaveric source in May, missing from dated September 24th…” Stiles mumbled, hands wild with flipping through papers, eyes glazed over with deep thought. He receded into his head, thought back to pulsing patterns and autopsies and missing persons cases. Thought about the details of the infection, how the zombie-like creatures they’d encountered were all females, and brunettes too, as if somehow… Oh.

Oh. 

“Why do pretty faces happen to bad people,” he muttered, hands alive and wild, Derek confused and frustrated behind him. “Hey I’m going to stand naked in the kitchen with a knife, maybe that’ll help.”

Derek frowned at the words, shrugging it off uncomfortably.

“Stiles? What did you find?” a voice close to Stiles ear, like, hmm, _right up his freakin’ neck._

Stiles jumped three feet in the air, stumbling backwards into Derek, heart beating madly.   
  
“Dude, what the hell!” he exclaimed in surprise, turning around to peer at the werewolf, jittery with frantic thoughts, “You’re like a night room shadow, man; no curtains, 250 pounds of muscles and zero sense of etiquette— 

“Stiles.” Derek said, pointedly, grabbing his shoulders, glass-green eyes fiery and tired all at once. Stiles stilled at the contact, tensing up awkwardly.

“What. Is. Your. Point.”

Stiles looked up, eyes going wide as he thought back to what he had found, switching and leaping from terminal to terminal like electricity. He was always rambling incessantly whenever he was nervous, or excited, or both. Yeah, at this juncture pretty much both. 

“Oh my god, yeah, about that. We’re dead knuckles, D. She’s going to kill us. To death. With small tiny kitchen knives she keeps in her pockets.”

Derek frowned at the imagery again, and shook his head, eyes squinting like an old man. 

Half the things Stiles said always made no sense. 

“I’m going to check the 27 terminals we managed to get our hands on again okay? And the radio junks too. I need to confirm this, Derek, so you sit your ass down on the couch and give me some time, yeah? I’ll get a Stiles-translator in a jiffy with two upgrade packs and I’m just rambling right now because I’m so excited but yeah okay I’m going to stop right now before that glare burns my face off.”

Derek sighed stonily, dragged his feet to the couch. Stiles watched him go, then turned back to work. He knew the big guy was exhausted, had been chasing fake trails alone for weeks without rest before Stiles stepped in. If they were going up against yet another psycho, he needed Derek functional, rested, well and perhaps hopefully a less tad grumpy. He didn’t need Mr. Grumps breathing down his neck while he flitted across data terminals. It was exhausting and stressful for him, too. 

Hours later, he’d completed the downloads for sufficient evidence for charging the female zombie-turning psycho and the possible targets for the next Full Moon round that they needed to protect. He flopped back into his roller chair, one of the things Derek had used to bribe him for his help in the case. He loved the blue cover, the cushiony velvet texture, the smooth rollers. It was his now. He laughed.

A belonging of his in Derek’s loft was a odd and comforting thought.

“Hey Mr.Sourwolf we can talk now,” he called out to the wolf on the couch, and waited for a response. When none came, he belly flopped down to the ground from his chair, slinking with the movement like all the bones in his body had been removed. An apt summation of his current mood would be: too tired to move but burning with curiosity. Derek, asleep? Hell yeah. For all the time he had known the werewolf, it was always the other way round: the little wolf stalker watching other people sleep whilst he slinked in the shadows. Now, it was time for a little payback. 

On the floor, leaning against his roller chair for emotional support, he looked beyond the piles of papers and terminals scattered across the floor to the sofa with Derek’s breathing figure. Stiles almost considered rolling over, but he wasn’t ready to stoop to that level yet. At least not in someone else’s place. He groaned as he stood up, stretching out his arms and popping bones. He was only seventeen and he felt like right about eighty right now. 

Slowly but quietly, he walked over to the figure. Maybe Derek slept with his eyes open. The thought induced a small shudder to run through his back. That was kind of high on the creepy meter. But then again, Derek had never scored low that on front. 

When he rounded the couch to the front, he’d almost expected Derek lying ramrod straight, awake and glaring, sinking uncomfortably into the fabric with folded arms like he had been furious and listening the whole time. It wouldn’t have been surprising, really. 

What he hadn’t expected: Derek, face slack, arm falling off the couch and gently touching the floor. Eyes closed, lashes fanning his face, which was young beyond his years. Shirt riding up his torso, exposing skin underneath, almost vulnerable. The sharpened jaw, thick brows no longer roughened his face. Stiles felt an odd feeling churn in his stomach at the sight. He felt invasive, like he’d been granted a sight he wasn’t supposed to have. When Derek was awake, he was always larger, his presence big, even. Here, Derek was just… a regular guy lying on his couch. Human.

Stiles had never associated ‘human’ with Derek before. He looked at the soft facial features, the smooth skin of his stomach as his shirt rode up that body. Derek, with an arm cushioning his head, the other slumped. Like he had just crashed a friend’s couch for the night. So…

Stiles looked at the ground. The image of a sleeping Derek etching itself into his mind. The scene startled him. Never mind the obvious perfection of his accidentally revealed musculature which was primarily his unblemished torso, because Stiles had seen Derek shirtless before. It was the perspective that changed, at day, and the days after. Because a little worm in his head kept him reminded: Derek was human.

Which didn’t make a lot of sense, seeing as Derek wasn’t physically a human being. But Stiles knew, from then onwards: the werewolf wasn’t invulnerable, wasn’t invincible. He felt emotions, worried, fussed, could be tired, ate, hell, he even pooped. He was human in Stiles’ book, very much so. 

And he… slept. In front of Stiles. Like he trusted Stiles not to hurt him. 

Stiles sat onto the floor, peering at the sight before him, still unaccustomed. It was the first time he would ever link Derek to being vulnerable. That changed a lot of things. 

That growing inkling in him that was warm and slightly confusing? He ignored that, cast it away into a box of ‘Forget Asap’. 

He had psycho zombie-turning witch murderers to catch, after all.

============0=============

_[Now]_

Stiles pulled the car to a stop in front of an foreign ice-cream parlour. He didn’t know why, but the sight calmed him, reminded him of his childhood days when his dad would bring him out to get a tub of frosted cream after a particular bad day with visiting Mom. He looked at the tacky bright colours of the shop’s decor, now dulled in the evening dark. There were pictures of happy cartoon children playing with clowns adorning the front door, and looked like they had been drawn by five-year-olds with no sense of proportion or distribution. He cringed at a cartoon child that had a spectacularly long neck. Perfect nightmare fodder. 

He glanced around at their surroundings. He didn’t recognise the landmarks, nor the road signs, which meant he had been driving for a long time, and they had probably travelled pretty far away. It wasn’t even raining here. 

“Stiles…?” a sleep-fresh voice rumbled from beside him, disoriented.

“Mmm, yeah you can say that again in that voice, Mr. Sourwolf,” Stiles said jokingly, shooting Derek a small tired smile. _I’m sorry_ , he actually wanted to say, _I’m sorry for causing you all this trouble._ But that was another whole can of worms he wasn’t ready to tackle yet again. They both needed a little respite. Especially the disappointment floating about in his stomach, with that botched ‘get-my-ass-back-to-school-and-return-self-to-normal-life’ plan. He licked his lips nervously, glanced away from Derek to the window on his side. Yeah, that plan hadn’t gone on very well. He’d been too hasty, too quick to rush things. 

“Stiles,” Derek said again, shifting and stretching out kinks whilst still being strapped down by a seatbelt. Stiles turned back to him, determined to make the rest of this day a good one, a better one. He concentrated on the soft, sleep-addled depths of Derek’s eyes, the sluggish confusion in his slacked brows, the wondering glances at the ice-cream parlour in front of their vehicle. He thought hard about those images, cast away how dirty his skin felt, having not taken any extra baths that day. Today, he was determined to forget, at least for a little while. He was going to milk this opportunity for all it was worth. 

“Derek Hale,” he declared as best as he could, “we’re going to eat some ice-cream.”

Derek raised a brow at him, now unbuckling his seatbelt, genuinely looking around to ascertain their location. Stiles snorted internally. Yeah, good luck with that, Stiles had already tried: they were pretty far out. 

“So…” Stiles gulped, unsure now seeing as he’d taken so many liberties with one Derek Hale, “is that eyebrow screaming a resounding yes or no to me? It’s a little wiggly so I can’t really tell. But I’m going to be positive and guess that’s as good as a ‘yes’.” 

Derek sighed in exasperation, apparently not one for much talk after just having woken up. Stiles ignored how comfortable Derek was to the fact that he had slept soundly in Stiles’ presence —again, his brain reminded him— when no one else had ever had the honour. Even his own pack. 

Stiles cast that out of his mind, swam back to safer waters. There was so much he didn’t need to think about, right now. Things that just complicated, well, everything. 

Derek unlocked the door on his side, nodded his head towards the parlour in a ‘let’s go’ gesture, still silent. Stiles stared, disbelieving. He’d expected a lot more resistance. Derek and ice cream parlour didn’t exactly go well together in his head. Him and Derek, sitting across stools in a kids’ ice cream place, with colourful clowns and cartoon kids with elongated necks plastered around. Stiles laughed softly at the image. 

Derek, who was already outside of the car, snapped up at the sound of his soft, almost hacked out, laughter. As tired as it had sounded, it was still a laugh. Stiles stilled, watched the viridescent clear sea depths of Derek’s eyes soften considerably, almost wistful, surprised. He watched as Derek pored over Stiles, taking in his awkward frame, and wondered what Derek now saw in his own hazel eyes. He wondered what Derek felt, then, in his heart. Didn’t need to wonder long because Stiles knew, had known for a while now. Had known even _before_.

Stiles broke eye contact first. He unbuckled his seatbelt smoothly and stepped out of the sleek camaro. He settled the car, and walked up beside the werewolf. 

They walked into the parlour together. 

============0=============

“Hello, may I help you?” a lady walked up to greet them amiably, a smile on her face. Inside, the place looked like a child’s paradise: the counter was filled with cotton candy stands, a wide array of ice-cream flavours that looked absolutely out of the world, sweets and pastries lining up along viewing shelves, with men —bakers?— in party hats behind behind them, making the foodstuff live in front of them. It was quite the view, with walls painted in messy rainbows, nyan cats, meme culture, weird distorted childrens’ drawings of horses, pigs, pandas and adorable puppies. Everything was like colourful vomit, and it brightened the place considerably. There were also quite a lot of children playing in a bounded area allocated for them —thank goodness the little rascals were contained safely— which opened up with numerous balloons and playpens of all sorts. Toy land, intermixed with Candy land, intermixed with I’m Puking Rainbows and Smiles land. Stiles’ eyes widened at the sight. He turned to glance at Derek, who looked like he was ready to barf. 

He hacked out a laugh.

At this, Derek peered at him, eyes softening meaningfully again. Stiles immediately looked to the lady approaching them to distract himself. Nope, he wasn’t going to think about that, at all. 

“Yes mam, you can definitely invite us in for an awesome, rainbow-time,” Stiles chirped, replying and quoting the restaurant lash playpen’s catchphrase splashed in bold letters on the front door as they were coming in: Bringing You An Awesome Rainbow-Time! 

The lady laughed politely at the response, eyes crinkling in an odd tension at the corners. Stiles squinted at her. Either she hated her job, or she hated her job. 

“May I ask how old the two of you are?” she inquired politely, which made it seem like it was standard procedure. Stiles opened his mouth to answer—

“I’m twenty-four,” Derek cut in, voice serious and monotonous, “This one here is actually six.” 

Stiles turned to look at him, scowling in mock betrayal. “Traitor,” he muttered under his breath, “supposed to be a secret…”

The level of _done_ on the waiting lady’s face made it even more worthwhile. Her facial muscles twitched, almost spasming with the tension hidden underneath it as she smiled tightly. Stiles bit his lip at the sight, conspiratorially giving Derek a small thumbs up at his back. Derek rolled his eyes at the childish signal. 

“Right this way please,” she responded, her features wounded as tight as steel. They followed her to rows of plush tables with brightly coloured toys sitting about. The place was huge: they had different sectors with different functions. Stiles looked around. They’d been led to an yet another colour-splashed area, but this one meant to serve dining customers.

“Here,” she said, gesturing to a comfortable two-seater with plush-red cushions. Stiles and Derek took their seats facing each other. “I’ll be right back when you’re ready with your orders,” she then continued, inclining her head, and walked off as quickly as she could. Stiles watched her go, shrugging. 

When he turned back, Derek was watching him. Stiles cast the intense gaze away, and reached out a hand to grab the menu to his right. He opened the large piece of cardboard wide open, abruptly cutting the stare as it disappeared behind pictures of ice-cream and sundae packages. He distracted himself with the endless options of pastries and diabetic-inducing snacks. 

“Hmm…” he said after a while, bringing down the menu down a little to peek over the top at Derek. The werewolf was now holding a copy of the menu, grimacing at the options. “Well, what cha getting, Sourwolf?”  

A sad, brooding silence, and a heated glare being sent his way. Stiles mentally captured a snapshot for future entertainment. Of course the vegetable, lean meat-eating muscle buff wasn’t into _anything_ on the menu. 

Derek flipped the menu over, expression worsening at the other page, face almost hollowing. _No, not the sugar_ , Stiles could almost hear the words, _anything but the sugar._ The words were made worse when Derek looked absolutely horrified by the options of free flowing tacky creamy frostings and unlimited sprinkles labelled colourfully in the corner. Stiles watched his fingers clench slightly on the menu, and brought a hand to his mouth, choking back a cough of a laugh. Derek glanced up at the sound, this time still glaring heatedly. _You brought me here, Stiles_ , his gaze said, _You made me do this._

Stiles laughed aloud, eyes lighting up at the miserable sight. He set his own menu down, shook his head as the bubbles of amusement rung in the air. Of all things of course Derek going up against a children’s ice-cream parlour would be hilarious to him. 

In the face of Stiles’ laughter, Derek’s glare simmered down, his expression suddenly open, still surprised, taking in, _drinking_ in the sound. Stiles eventually stilled too, surprised at the way Derek looked at him openly, almost vulnerable, almost disbelieving.  

Then Derek smiled. 

Stiles’ eyes widened, and another burst of disbelieving laugh erupted from his throat. He had never seen Derek smile like that before. Heck, had he _ever_ seen Derek smile? 

“I’m only taking adult flavours, Stiles,” he declared, still smiling contently as he brushed through the contents with his fingers, eyes bright. Stiles shook his head, looking back at the contents of the menu himself. Derek, smiling? It was a rarity not many had had the opportunity to chance upon. He’d bet, of all the pack, he was the first to see it like that: genuine and soft and small under the wild, rainbow lighting of a children’s ice-cream parlour. Eyes softening yet sparking, which made Stiles go absolutely light-headed and giddy. It was intoxicating, almost like a privilege that others were not privy to. Stiles looked down at the menu, bit his lip, containing the growing smile. He’d have to tell Sco— 

He blinked, disoriented. He gripped his menu a tad bit tighter, the sparks of the world abruptly fading from the air, the light simmering away, leaving only bleakness. A nauseous feeling churned in his gut, discomfiting. 

“Stiles?” Derek said, concern now colouring the edges of his voice, a frown on his face. Stiles ignored the hollow feeling that gripped him at the loss of Derek’s smile. 

Stiles glanced up, shook his head, tried for an assuring expression. “I’m fine.”

Derek looked unconvinced, but Stiles carried on. “Hey look,” he said with fake cheer, empty even to his own ears, “they have candy floss flavours.” He concentrated intensely on the menu, afraid to look up. He raised the menu just a tad higher so that his view of Derek would be entirely cut off. “I love candy floss,” he said behind the cardboard.

“I’m getting the unlimited sprinkles option,” he rambled on. “Wha cha getting?”

“Coffee flavour,” Derek said, and Stiles chanced a cautionary glance over his metaphorical fence of a menu. Derek seemed to have let go of the initial concern, looking casually over the other adult flavours. The action seemed nonchalant, like he’d tapped on that Stiles didn’t want Derek fussing over him. Which was, well, kind of true. 

“Alrighty then,” Stiles brightened, raised a hand to call the same lady server back. As soon as she noticed his hand, she started to walk over. 

“May I take your order?” she said, the phrase automatic and bland in her mouth, like she’d been using it all her life. Stiles internally cringed at the thought. 

“A single scoop candy floss ice-cream, cone, with rainbow sprinkles please. Kids’ set.” Stiles replied, feeling better at the prospect of awesome grub. Derek waited for her to frantically scribble the order onto her marshmallow-themed writing pad before speaking.

“Single scoop. Coffee. Cup,” Derek said, and Stiles put up an expression of mock horror at him. 

“I’ll be right back with your orders, sirs,” she said, smile tight and tired, then walked off in a series of click-clacks. After she left, Stiles immediately rounded up on Derek.

“You’re a Cup kid?! Come _on.”_

Derek shot him a deep frown. “Cones are messy.”

“Wha? Dude, cones are _divine._ Seriously, what’s an ice-cream without wafer?” Stiles said. 

“Neat,” Derek said.

Stiles shook his head in mock disappointment like a mother would to their naughty child, and absently reached out hands to play with the soft marshmallow tissue sets sitting on the table. He watched Derek’s gaze follow from his eyes, down his arms, to the fingers rubbing the tissue corners. 

Derek often did that, Stiles had come to realise. Even _before_ , the werewolf had had that habit. Stiles would be doing some particular activity that took his mind off onto tangents like diving into research, files, and documents, the whole lot scattered around. When he finally noticed the intensity of Derek’s stare, however, it would be just like this: Derek devouring his skin, eyes drinking him in, focused on a particular part of Stiles, eyes glazing over, staring for God knew how long. The gaze strangely didn’t possess any sexual energy —which would have put Stiles immediately on edge— and instead possessed only an odd intensity, like those clear sea green orbs could suck him in if he had taken any longer to notice. Like Derek was a hungry man in the desert, and Stiles was a temporal oasis he indulged in. 

“Earth to Derek,” Stiles said, voice light, eyes intently looking at what would seem like Derek appreciating the form of his hands, his fingers playing with tissue edges. The werewolf often didn’t notice Stiles _noticing_ , but then again it wasn’t like he was making any obvious effort to hide it. It just happened. 

At this, Derek glanced back up, startled. It was so peculiar, this cycle between them. The surprise on Derek’s face always seemed genuine, and then it would crumple into embarrassment. 

“Sorry,” the werewolf muttered gruffly under his breath, and Stiles cocked his head at him. He couldn’t help but wonder what Derek thought about, sometimes. What he saw in with those sea-green as he looked at Stiles. 

“No prob, man. You were zoning out big time.” Stiles shrugged casually as Derek lifted his gaze to meet Stiles’ own eyes. He looked relieved, like he thought that Stiles hadn’t noticed. Well, he would be wrong, but Stiles wasn’t going to call out on that. 

“Hey,” Stiles said as the conversation lulled to a pause, “so tell me: is it true you can tell if I’m lying _all the time_?” Derek started frowning at the words. “Like, there isn’t a single time you’ll slip up? Because it would really suck if I couldn’t lie to any wolfies at least once, man.”

“Like, what if I wanted to surprise one of you guys, or something?” Stiles said.

Derek pondered over the question for a while, then shrugged.

“If you steady your heartbeat while you tell the lie, we wouldn’t be able to tell,” Derek said. Stiles knew it was true; he’d heard it from the Argents before. But what he wanted to know was…

“How?” Stiles said, leaning in, eyes no doubt gleaming now that the conversation was revving up into his areas of interest, important stuff that could possibly add to his bank of knowledge. Evade werewolves effectively with lies? That would be fun, and on top of that, exceedingly exhilarating. 

Derek shot him a I-don’t-like-telling-you-this warning look. Stiles waggled his brows, waiting, which earned him a sufferable sigh. 

“Come on, Cuddlepup, you can do it,” Stiles urged.

“ _Don’t_ call me that,” Derek huffed, a look of incredulity on his face, as if saying to Stiles: _Where that hell did you even think up of that— Wait, I don’t even want to know._

Then, in that moment, Stiles saw Derek’s eyes suddenly light up with a blooming idea, like something hitting a statue and whipping it to life. _Hmm…okay…?_ Secretly, he imagined a cartoon light bulb by the werewolf’s head, bursting wickedly into brightness. The image was gratifyingly funny, but he kept it to himself and paused, waiting for Derek to speak. 

“If you really want to learn how, you could try it.” Derek finally challenged, eyes illuminated with an almost-mischief, arms crossing over his chest, “Lie to me, and see if I can tell.”

Stiles sparked brilliantly at the notion of a _game_. Hell, he _loved_ games. He could feel his inner kid reaching out from inside, grasping at the inklings of a freakin’ honest-to-god _game_ , with Derek Sourwolf Hale. Man, the last time he’d offered to play Monopoly with the dude, he’d just completely ignored him with a huff. And here they were... 

“Are we really playing? Is this a game? Oh my god, this is going to be—“

“Thank you for waiting, Sirs,” the waitress’ voice suddenly popped out from behind Stiles, and he jumped in surprise. God, when did _she_ arrive?

She set an ice-cream cup on the table in front of Derek, a brown sludge ball of disgusting coffee in a plastic cup, and handed Stiles his awesome and absolutely amazing cone ice-cream: a pink ball bursting with rainbow sprinkles on top. What was it called again? Oh right: juxtaposition, contrast, difference. And boy was Stiles on the winning ice-cream team. 

Stiles gently grabbed the bottom part of the cone, making sure to avoid skin-to-skin contact. He smiled in genuine glee at the lady server, nodding in thanks. Derek similarly inclined his head, and she bowed, then walked away, making her way back to her position. Stiles started lapping at his ice-cream enthusiastically. 

He ignored the intense stare Derek cast at him licking his candy floss ice cream, enjoyed the thing for all it was worth. Ignored the way the werewolf’s eyes travelled from his eyes, to his mouth, to his tongue…

“Dude,” Stiles said, looking up nervously, a slight discomfiting feeling blooming in his stomach at the slight sexual connotations entering the stare, “You gonna eat yours?”

Derek blinked, nodding. He reached to the side to grab a plastic, see-through spoon, and scooped a generous helping of the disgusting coffee sludge ball.

“Did you know,” Stiles said, steering the conversation back, “volcanoes on Io, which is one of Jupiter’s innermost moons, produce super cool spectacular eruption columns that reach heights of three-hundred and ten miles —which is also about five hundred kilometres— and they are, _literally,_ out of this world?”

Derek paused at the words, brow raising. “And… you’re telling me this because?”

“Am I lying?” Stiles said, eyes fiery with intent. He would have crossed his fingers in a villainous fashion, but he was still holding his ice-cream cone. 

Derek cocked his head, eyes evaluating. “No.”

“Damn,” Stiles said. “You’re good, Miguel.” This earned him an eye roll, and Derek scooping another of his ice cream. Stiles leaned in to lap at his own too, catching up the drops threatening to run down along the line of the cone onto his hand. As a professional ice-cream cone eater, he successfully caught every single last drop.

“I hate dogs,” Derek said, and Stiles looked up at the words. That was quite the unforeseen admission. 

“Really?” Stiles said, keeping the disbelief out of his tone, interest piqued.

“Am I lying?” 

Stiles blinked at the words, then laughed. “You get a turn too?”

“Yeah,” Derek said. _Of course_ , his tone said.

“Hmm… Then, I guess: truth.”

“No, it was a lie,” Derek responded as a few kids started screaming excitedly in the background. Stiles strained his ears to listen. _Oh, what?_

“Wait, so you like dogs?” Stiles said, smiling now, “Okay, that’s kind of cute.” 

“It’s not _cute,_ ” Derek said, horrified with the association, looking like he was mentally battering the term away as he continued, “It’s because I had a pup, once. 

Stiles blinked, trying to imagine Derek and a big ol’ dog by a fireplace with hanging santa stockings, the pup complete with the golden-brown fur, the padded feet, the lapping tongue, the soft dark drooping eyes, draped all over Derek and licking at his face, barking happily, tail wagging to and fro excitedly, and Derek, the secret _softie_ that loved dogs, trailing his hands through the soft fur, eyes warm. 

Man, what a lovely image.

“You’ll be great with pups, dude,” Stiles said, tone soft, “I can see it.”

“Her name was Max,” Derek said, glowing with warmth at the memory. “Yeah, she was pretty great. 

Stiles glanced up from his ice-cream, stopping. He knew there was always more to Derek and his big tough-wolf image. Only if he divulged more like this more often. 

“Your turn,” Derek said, scooping another bite of coffee ice-cream. 

It was going to be a great day, after all, Stiles thought to himself as he opened his mouth to speak.

============0=============

On the way back, Derek took the wheel. He slipped the key into the keyhole to rev the engine up as Stiles  whipped out his phone, expecting to scroll through the missed calls and urgent messages from his dad. His phone screen, however, only had a single message notification. 

_“Covered for you, said you were at my place. You owe me big time. Enjoy yourselves._

_— Lydia”_

Derek’s arm was raised between them, switching on the lights attached to the ceiling of the black Camaro silently. Stiles shot him a knowing look. It was obvious that he hadn’t forgotten about Stiles’ fear of the dark. 

Derek glanced over at Stiles, and the lighted phone screen in his hand. “The Sheriff?”

“Nah, Lydia covered us. It’s fine,” Stiles said. Derek nodded, hands on the steering wheel, eyes on the traffic as the sleek vehicle rolled along concrete. He looked intently on the road, and they descended into a comfortable silence. Stiles looked out the window, peered pass blurred passing street lights to dark forest greens and shadowed houses lined up in nameless rows. The soothing soft rumble of Derek’s Camaro wasn’t the same as his baby jeep’s, but it was there.

He returned his gaze to the driver beside him, and caught the slight squint Derek cast onto the street signs. 

“Do… we know where we are…?” Stiles ventured, quirking his lips in amusement. He hadn’t even thought about their location, as caught up as he had been in conversation and ice-cream parlours entertainments. 

Derek cast him a small scowl. “Yeah.”

Stiles raised a brow, whipped his head around in an exaggerated fashion with hands shading his eyes like a sea pirate on a lookout. “Reeeeaaaally? These are empty seas, Cap.”

Derek huffed an amused breath. “I don’t even want to ask what you’re doing.”

Stiles smiled, slumped back into his own seat in a relaxed manner, thinking back about the late day’s events. A cosy quiet enshrouded the atmosphere once again. 

When they stopped at a traffic light, Stiles broke the silence once more.

“Thanks,” he mumbled, the sound loud in the quiet of the vehicle, “I had fun today.” 

He looked to Derek for any indication, slightly nervous about the words. It felt awkward talking about _feelings_ , especially with one Derek Hale who wasn’t much of a feelings-train fan. But the words had caught up in his throat, like it needed to be said. He curled his fingers together on his lap, subconsciously playing with them,curled his toes in his white sneakers, tangling the nubs into his socks. He could hear his heart speeding up slightly. 

“Me too,” Derek said after what felt like forever, the two words purposefully casual sounding. Stiles knew, in all actuality, that they held more weight than he could possibly imagine. Well, at least Derek didn’t do too well with feelings too, because a long in-depth feelings train wasn’t going to be welcomed with balloons and happy clapping anytime soon. He was beyond glad for that silent consensus between them. 

“Cool,” Stiles finished awkwardly, clamping down the sudden warm feeling springing up in his chest at the words, at the implications, at the well-this-sounds-exactly-like-a-date thought that had abruptly invaded his brain. If anything, he oddly felt embarrassed at the label of a date. Hell, he hadn’t even realised how much like a date the whole thing had been until now.

He hadn’t dated anything and anyone before. Unless he counted that one time he managed to score Lydia as a prom date, but he had had a lot of help with that win. This one had seemingly occurred organically out of the ocean blue, and it was… nice. Fuzzy, even. While that prom date had been all frazzled nerves and heart banging teenage hormonal anxiety, this one was fireplaces and draped silk blankets, hot baths and cotton pajamas. Comfortable. Natural. 

Stiles pondered over it, then cast the thought away. He was too tired to delve into what it meant for them, what it meant for anything. He just wanted things soft and warm and easy. That was all he needed.

============0=============

“See you tomorrow, then. I guess.” Stiles said, as he stepped out of the vehicle, straying uncomfortably at the open door. Derek gave him a silent nod, eyes strangely soft, intense with some sort of feeling Stiles didn’t want to analyse or understand just yet. 

He closed the car door.

============0============= 

It was odd, but Stiles imagined warm hands carding through his hair that night, protective. 

He imagined a pair of sea-green eyes, the scent of forest green, pelt, and pine oaks by his bedside, hovering. The odd dream-reality was hazy, but he could have sworn he heard muted breaths in the air, a hand gently caressing from his bed-hair down his neck to the edge of his jaw, cradling his head like one would an infant’s. 

There was so much _warmth_. 

He slept soundly, that night.


	7. Fragmented

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> National examinations are finally over, hurray.
> 
> Once again, please, please take care of yourself whilst reading the story. Should you, at any moment, feel discomforted or trapped in an unhealthy headspace, please stop immediately and rest. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the support: more important author-y things will be discussed in the end notes.

* * *

_"And when wind and winter harden All the loveless land, It will whisper of the garden, You will understand.” _

_ —To My Wife, Oscar Wilde _

* * *

Three days later, he still hadn’t mustered enough courage to try out school again. His dad wholeheartedly agreed, urging Stiles to remain home until he was ready and rambled on about how the school had said he could still take his tests at home till then, and that they could hang out, do fun things together, have some “father-son time”.

Stiles had merely nodded, trying to smile. He didn’t voice out the fear that he might never muster the courage to attend school again, to return to the Boy his father cherished and loved. Didn’t mention about how he felt his identity chipping away slowly, his sense of self eroding from the wear and tear of the world. 

 ============0=============

_“But in all truth, that is just what I am. A frail creature made of moonlight and hollow, limpid bones, with so much magic I can spin the threads of the world together or apart,”_ she whispered in soft breaths, contemplative.

The young girl, long-limbed, smooth-skinned, sat on the rocks. He could only see her back, the soft, wispy edges of her pale dress, flailing softly from around her. Her hair was stark white, painted with inks of brighter strands of light, and the rest the colour of icy snow. An ethereal smoke curled around her velvet frame, whispering, gliding through the dark air. Everything was washed-out white and dark pitch-black, except for the smoky grey that held whirls of mist.

She sat, a leg held lightly to her chest, her head resting gently on that knee. Her other leg lay languidly over the rocks, touching the ground as it swayed in the otherworldly light being casted back from the locks of her milk white hair. She was staring up into the monochrome sky, head tilted upwards such that her ends of her strange beguiling hair touched the ground.

“Lovely night it is, Stiles.” 

The peculiar soft tune trailed pass her wet lips, touching the air with tones of colourless tendrils. 

Stiles stared, bewitched with thrill and fear. Despite her pallid skin, her fragile-looking demeanour, he felt a well of power from her: a dark, hollow vacuum, a cosmic, overpowering hunger that seeped through the edges of her appearance, dripping ink slowly onto the floor. Wrongness emanated in waves from her little form, bursting into the air around her like a cloud. 

Stiles was afraid. He couldn’t move, only felt darkness ink closer to his soul, maw open and ready to devour.

The girl turned back to look at him. She was beautiful; her skin fair and graceful in the grey mist, her features celestial. But those eyes—

Stiles jerked. Blood-red boring into him, tinged with a monstrous, creature-like quality. Out of this world. Impenetrable shadows that gathered to the elegance of her jaw, the illuminated yet hooded eyes, the arches of her cheekbones. Blood-red, whites, blacks, greys all over her, crawling.

“Hello,” she said, smiling, unveiling two rows of innocent teeth, eyes still wide and bright ruby. Her voice was impeccably sweet, soft almost, one that matched her appearance of a young girl. Stiles knew better, noting the flats of her teeth, waiting for them to grow sharp. Waiting for claws to elongate from the dainty fingers trailing through the riveting locks of her unpigmented hair. 

“H…Hello,” he choked back, feeling drawn to her while simultaneously feeling a desperate need to run away from her. He was shaking. 

She laughed peals of beautiful laughter, the sound echoing into the sky. They tinkled, like musical numbers, or small bells in a frigid wind. 

“Sit with me, Stiles,” she said.

His feet moved of his own accord, shifting strangely, stiffly. Stiles shivered as a gust of frosty wind swept through, ruffling their hair and clothes. She looked unfazed, gaze larger than life as he reached her and sat on a rock beside her. 

He had been too preoccupied to notice, but they were on a cliff edge. Momentarily, he gazed beyond the drop of the cliff to mountains stretching far and wide, unusually coloured with shadows. There was no one else in sight except them. He glanced back to the girl, who was now gazing into the distance. 

“Who are you?” he said. She glanced back at him as if she’d been called back from a distant memory, drawing back into reality slowly. Her hands trailed through her silk hair, her lips parted. Stiles blinked at her beauty, at the oddly soft gaze she gave him. Her long snow lashes painted swirling shadows on her cheeks. 

“I’m a mother, youngling,” she said wistfully, voice akin to a soothing stream rippling, “Merely a mother.”

Stiles glimpsed at her bare feet touching the rocky earth, fairer than any pair of feet he’d seen, looked back up into softly glowing eyes. He was afraid, but he was equally entranced. 

“And I have questions, little one,” she sighed, the sound even beautiful then to Stiles’ ears. 

“Tell me,” he urged, oddly unhappy that she was sad. At this, she smiled a little, gaze despondent. 

“There are things I do not yet understand about creatures like you,” she said, raising a delicate arm up to cup his face, pulling him closer to her own. Stiles gasped into the coolness of her touch. “I do not yet know why you cry so,” she said, trailing a finger down his cheek, imitating tear tracks, “or why you anger harshly.” She tracked fingers up into his hair, cradling his head. Stiles closed his eyes, leaned into the touch, melting.

“I do not know why my children cry,” she said, her eyes softening. She let go of his skin, and Stiles opened his eyes, aching fervently for her touch. He stared into the dark, blood-red of her eyes, the swirling extent of her grief, her incomprehension. “He aches for you, Stiles.”

Stiles blinked, confused, but still entranced.

“He cries so even when I have granted him your new blood, your strong pulsing heart.” She smiled sadly, entwined her fingers into Stiles’, the length of them strong yet fluid. “Your beautiful mind.”

Stiles lost himself in her mesmerising eyes, something ancient and dark and unearthly trapped underneath the reflective surface.

“Tell me why, young human child,” she urged, “Tell me why my children cry so when I lavish my gifts unto them, when I connect two in love with my lifeblood.”

Stiles opened his mouth, brain registering pieces of her words, guided as he was by the tune of her voice, lulling him into a false comfort, a false warmth. He withdrew slightly from her touch, disconnecting.

“Who…” he managed, dazed, “Who are you?”

She smiled enigmatically, looked up to the sky, pointing.

“I sit there when my shadows descend through the world, watching,” she said. “I am a Moon, Stiles, and a Mother of Wolves.”

Stiles stared at her, at the soft frayed edges of her dress, the blacks and whites and greys. He looked at her soft, wispy features, the snow bright hair, the vivid scarlet gazing into his soul.

“You’re the Perigee’s Blood Moon,” he breathed in wonder, the realisation hitting him like a freight train, knocking the breath out of him. Thick research books, ancient yellowed and earthly smelling, flashed in his mind. Perigee, its Full Moon—

_wide and blaring into the surface of the Earth, reaching hands to plunge into its skin._

She cast eyes to him.

“Yes, child.” Her dimpled smile, the wide child-like eyes and her doll-like frame starkly juxtaposing the darkness of her presence, pressing all over him, trapping. He shakily drew a breath. 

“Why did you do it?” he said. He wanted to feel angry, waited for the familiar flame rising from his chest, but here, on the edge of a mountain cliff in the presence of a force greater than life, he only felt empty, confused and hurt. “Why did you let him do it?”

Her brows pulled into a frown, eyes suddenly electrifying.

“Were you two not mates, Stiles?” She titled her head, eyes blinking, “My child and your human heart intertwined with the love I felt pulsing from your souls towards each other?”

Stiles frowned back at her, his confusion echoing hers. “Love?” 

A sick, twisted feeling in his stomach descended as understanding suddenly dawned. “So that’s why you…you…” Stiles swallowed, shook his head, disbelieving. He clenched his fists, grit his teeth in frustration. How could she have gotten it so wrong? How—

“No,” he gritted out, “you don’t _get_ it, it’s _different_ —”

Her glare was steadily blaring, electrifying in the grey night, her pallid skin blazing. “Do you _deny_ that love, young one?” Her presence grew dark and feral. “An affection and endearment I _felt_ throbbing through your bones?” She growled at the air, eyes gradually growing dark black, small pin points of red in the middle of the black oceans. Stiles drew back, frightened at the display. It was not that she wouldn’t understand. It was that she _couldn’t_ understand, Stiles realised, terrified. She was _Nature_ ; a raw, formidable, inhuman power. No matter how she appeared to him, she wasn’t a sentient creature, a thinking breathing being, who experienced emotions, lived, loved, laughed, suffered. She was a unrestrained, unparalleled force. A _Blood Moon_. 

She suddenly rounded on him, leaning over him, starless ink-coal eyes searing against her soft eyelashes, teeth sharpening in her mouth into pointed razor-sharp tips.

“I grow impatient, little one,” she hissed, snake-like, “Why do you continue rejecting the Bond, rejecting my child’s want and love towards you? I have granted my blessings, but my child is all the more hurt for it.”

“I do not _understand_.” Her words, her fury were primal, dark things, embedded deep into crashing waves and blazing storms. She descended on his neck, inhaling, teeth snapping. Stiles stilled, fear coursing through his veins, his blood. He was going to die. He was going to die, here, on this desolate mountain creek. He felt the world crashing around him as her anger soared, and _whimpered_ against the force of her whirlwind. _Nonoplease—_

She froze at the sound of his whimper, stilled abruptly. 

The air around her calmed into a cool wind. Calmly, she slowly rose from where she had been buried in his neck. The dark moonless seas of her eyes receded into the ruby-tinged edges he’d first seen her with. Her expression softened.

Her hand glided along his skin, guided the tears glazing over in his eyes gently down his cheeks. Stiles’ vision cleared with the motion, looking up into a quietened face, the Moon’s anger ebbing away as rapidly as it had arrived. 

She pressed kind, tender lips to the sides of his eyes, the motion infused with apology.

“Be calm, young, young child,” she soothed, kissing down his neck, nuzzling into the edge of his jaw, “All safe in my arms.” She landed one last kiss before rising, looking down into his eyes. Stiles leaned into the luxury of her warmth, curling up into her arms as she placed hands on his back, cradling. 

“It is not safe,” she said moments later. Stiles pulled slightly out of her grip to stare into her eyes. “I only worry, Stiles. For my child and you.”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

“The fragmented Bond,” she said softly, cooing now, not a tinge of her wild fury in sight, “It will hurt you. Make a soft human creature even more malleable, like a babe stranded and lone in its cries.” She trailed hands over his shoulders, down his arms, looking at the traces her touch left.

“Be careful.”

Those were the last words he heard from her as she disappeared, the space around them dissipating into muddled blurs and inky whirls. 

============0=============

Stiles breathed, rasped into the sheets as he jerked violently awake, trembling uncontrollably. He blinked wild eyes into the artificial lights of his room, bright and glaring for his comfort. Perspiration coated the entirety of his forehead, the column of his neck, and down his back. He grasped his pillow —the one he could never sleep without— and inhaled its warmth. It didn’t help much.

He glanced outside his window, at the moonless night sky with snow locks of hair and bloody-red eyes. She had been so violently real, tinged with a clarity that inked itself into his mind. Had it been a dream? A premonition? He shivered in the cold, feeling oddly like her breath was still imprinting itself into his skin, winds still whipping through his hair. 

He didn’t sleep a wink that night, staring at the window and waiting for the ghost of the Blood Moon to wrap choking hands around his neck.

============0=============

“Damn it,” Derek muttered under his breath, his heart clenched with a quiet, muted fury. 

The Alpha Pack’s Triskelion mark was a sharp, jagged ugly thing clawed into the wood of the old Hale house. Derek’s eyes traced the foot-like endings, the abrupt steep turns replacing languid, smooth spirals that were familiar to him. Unlike the Hale spiral imprinted on his back, in between the blades of his shoulders, this one was serrated and uneven, each branch symbolising competition, ferocity and bloodlust. 

Derek brought out wary fingers, going over the symbol with the tips. The surface felt hot and fresh to the touch, the smell of tearing and savagery still unfurling about in wisps under his nose. He gritted his teeth, clenched his fists.

The Alpha Pack was in town.

============0=============

School wasn’t the only thing Stiles refused to continue, actually. Therapy, too. Which his father clearly didn’t agree with. At all.

“Stiles—” His dad said pleadingly, worn, dry hands rubbing over his face. Exhausted. Drained. Stiles bit his lip, nervous energy bubbling inside him, a dry and latent swirling outburst pooling. Guilt was a freight train ramming into his gut, twisting at his innards. _Look,_ a voice whispered in his mind, _you’re hurting him again. The people you love._ Stiles blinked away the numbing sensation in his fingers. He had been clenching them too tightly against one another. 

There was so much he needed to say, needed to do, but a thousand apologies would never be enough for the ever-expanding universe. At times like this, he merely wanted to lie on his bed and… give the whole world away.

“No, dad,” Stiles replied gently, tone soft and equally pleading. Lying on his side, he cramped his form into the edge of the wall, curling up into a fetal position, making himself as small as he could. There was a pain inside him that was growing, like a tumour, pulsing brightly with hurt. “Please.”

He could hear his father standing by his bedroom door, could hear the long breaths and the thudding of cautiously-placed footsteps as his dad approached the bed. Stiles didn’t uncurl, just remained breathing on the bed, trying to stop the trembling scouring through his frame, scratching at the skin frantically. But no matter how hard he tried to suppress them, to will them away, the tremors remained along with the overwhelming fear and desolation. The shaking couldn’t stop. 

A hand landed on the blanket he’d wrapped bindingly tight around his form, creating a warm pressure on his shoulder. He flinched hard, jerking from the suddenness of the pressure. His stomach churned at the notion of the slightest contact.

“Hey hey shh…” the Sheriff soothed, words pained with brimming emotion. “Shh…”

Stiles’ breath hitched at the inflection of the words, the familiarity of fatherly comfort a hit to his gut.

_I’m so sorry, Dad_. He wanted to say again, even though the words had been said so many times they had already formed indelible dented hollows on the edges of his tongue. _I’m sorry I did this to you._ He wanted to say something, anything, to atone, to make things right again, to convey how much guilt and sorrow he swallowed seeing his father suffer because of him, burdened and alone.  

Instead, he curled, giving in to weakness. Stiles shuddered under the weight of his fear, his helplessness, grabbed his heart in both hands and held it close, pressed the organ deep into his chest. 

“ _Please don’t leave me._ ”

The raspy words were soft, soft whispers; fragile wispy things that fell accidentally out of his mouth, framed with bloody glass edges that ripped the linings of his throat as they travelled upwards and outwards, leaving profusely bleeding wounds inside. His lips were left dried and numbingly cold.

At this, his dad made a choked noise. The hand resting on Stiles’ shoulder tensed. The silence eventually led to a warm hug encasing itself from behind him through the folds of his blanket, warily avoiding skin-to-skin contact.

“I…” The Sheriff’s words trembled with Stiles’ frame. “Stiles, I would _never_.”

All Stiles felt, however, was a razor-sharp pain blossoming in his chest, weighing him down so he couldn’t inhale breath. 

============0=============

Things didn’t get better. Stiles tried immersing himself in happy things, bright things, and thought back to that day, to Derek’s smile. Oddly, it only made him feel more bitter inside, more broken. The pillow beneath his cheek was hot and damp. Everywhere on his skin he felt hands and grime that coated, caked, smudged. He felt so dirty, so disgusting. He was so afraid of tainting his dad’s warm light, Derek’s gentle eyes. 

He thought back to the strange dream, the edges blurry and faded. He remembered fair hair, blood eyes, an enchanting voice. Mother of Wolves, she had said. Flashes of a grey empty sky, as if the Blood Moon had stepped out of its seat to materialise in front of him. A beautiful girl, eyes old and deep, the air around her flaring with the power and might of seas and winds. Her anger wild and mad and feral, rising rapidly as quickly as it had gone down. Her confusion, her frustration, her sadness. _Mother Nature_ , he thought, laughing bitterly to himself, _literally_.

“ _The fragmented Bond,_ ” she had said, her voice a melody rich and full in the wind, “ _It will hurt you. Make a soft human creature even more malleable, like a babe stranded and lone in its cries._ ”

Stiles shuddered, curled up tighter into his blanket.

He was still deep in his thoughts when his cell phone beeped, the tone shrill and jagged in the silence of the room. He waited for it to calm before he blinked tired eyes open. 

Stiles uncurled from his position on the bed, extended a groggy, numbed arm to grab his cell. He opened the screen, the luminous brightness momentarily blinding him. He opened the single text message from Derek.

**Loft. Need to talk. Urgent.**

Stiles stared at the message, sighed, and slowly rose from the bed, joints popping, muscles groaning. 

Guess he had something to do today after all.

============0=============

The door rumbled as Derek pulled it open. Stiles was there, shuffling his feet about, looking sheepish and awkward, gaze tired. His hair was sleep-ruffled, tufts of dark brown uncaringly standing at off angles. His clothes were loose and dressed sloppily, shirt rumpled, one end drooping down his shoulder. Derek tried not to stare at the smooth curve of shoulder, the unveiled skin underneath, white cloth slipping down enticingly, almost seductively. Stiles’ trousers fared no better, loose and hanging low on his hips, almost dropping. It would have revealed more skin had his shirt not been long enough. Derek peered his eyes up again to Stiles’ eyes, avoiding eye contact with his neck, the edges of his collar bones, the dip of them, stretching out to a rounded, soft shoulder. 

Stiles shifted uncomfortably, a hand reaching up to pull the edge of the cloth up his shoulder, straightening the shirt. 

“Yeah, so hey,” he mumbled, still shifting about, on edge. “What’s up.”

Derek frowned. “Yes.”

Stiles’s discomfort seemed to steadily grow. Derek drank in the scent, the emotion unsettling himself in turn. He looked at the dark edges framing the boy’s (young adult, he reminded himself) eyes, the hollowed cheeks. He hadn’t looked quite so drained while Derek was watching over him the previous night. Derek’s worry grew. Maybe Stiles had come because he needed help, needed someone.

“Are you okay? Do you need anything?” Derek said, tone soft, gentle. Stiles tensed at the words, significant confusion mixing in with his scent. It set Derek on edge.

“Um. You called me? Here? I got your text…” Stiles said, whipping out his phone, tapping on the screen. Derek peered over, brows now pulled together in a frown at the words. “Stiles, I didn’t text—“ They were both staring at the message when a voice, a third party, interrupted from behind Derek, from inside the loft.

“You mean you got _my_ text?” The voice was loud enough so that Stiles could hear.

Derek groaned, his head pounding. He didn’t have time to spare for stupid games and senseless manipulative moves. He had _an alpha pack_ to deal with.   

Derek watched Stiles flinch, the fear resoundingly entering his scent again, this time tinged with surprise too. He kept his cell back into his front pocket, fingers stiff, and then he reached a hand up to run through his hair, distressed. Derek hated that, hated Stiles distressed, but that seemed to be new constant for him now. 

“Invite Stiles in, Derek,” the voice called smugly again, lazy. “We do need to talk, you know? I merely helped you face the inevitable sooner. You’re _welcome_.”

Derek blew out air through his nose, anger and irritation rising up. He clenched the door, the duo still standing at the entrance. He shifted then, defensively using his frame to block the gap of the door, and considered leaving with Stiles, putting distance between—

“Hey,” Stiles said softly, eyes knowing. He brought a hand up to Derek’s shoulder, patted it through the cloth. “It’s okay, Derek. I’m okay.” 

Derek heard the uneven thudding of Stiles’ heart, knew the lie for what it was, but didn’t call it out. They both knew, after all.

“Come on,” Stiles said, pushing pass Derek into the loft. Derek reluctantly followed him, glaring angrily at _Peter_ lazing on the couch, face still smug. 

“Don’t you _dare_ touch my phone again,” Derek warned, eyes bright with anger. 

“Sure, sure,” Peter said placatingly, voice light, arms spread on the couch. Derek closed the door, rammed it shut loudly, childishly, with odd anger. Peter infuriated him more than he knew, often tugging at his strings for his own amusement. The notion chipped at Derek, irritated him. Sometimes, he wondered if it were better if he had stayed dead. It would be less noisy, at least. 

“Amazing,” Peter breathed, as Derek whipped around to see Peter’s surprised, widened eyes gliding across Stiles, indecently unwrapping. He angled his neck, whiffing at the air, closed his eyes, shuddered. “I didn’t know it’d be this strong… this heady… God,” he groaned, ending off on an almost-growl, fingers tightening. 

The two werewolves in the room could smell Stiles’ skyrocketing fear, the small bunny hopping of his heart, banging wildly in the small cage of his chest. It stirred at their predatory instincts, aggravating it with the scent of fear, of prey. Derek immediately placed himself angrily in between Peter and Stiles, who had grown too still, too silent, too pale. Making sure Stiles couldn’t see, Derek’s willed his eyes to flash warningly. “Peter,” he merely said, the word short, clipped, pulled taut and dangerous low. 

Peter raised placating hands again, eyes returning to a duller colour, expression faux-innocent. 

“Relax, nephew,” he said mockingly, eyes still sliding slyly over Derek’s shoulder, peering at Stiles. “We’re not here to fight, remember?” It was a nudge. 

Derek didn’t relax in the least, merely calmed himself some before turning to face Stiles, blocking Peter form his sight. Meeting Stiles’ frightened doe eyes stirred a primal want in him, the scent of iron-fear made rich, but Derek reigned in the feeling, clamped down the thrill rising up in his skin. Stiles was deathly pale now, breathing audible. But distinct from the fear, he smelt of rising anger, too. Fury. Stiles’ fists were gripped tightly by his sides, brows drawing together, eyes slowly sharpening over his fear. Derek heard the gritting of his teeth, the edges grinding heavily against one another. 

“What the hell do you want?” Stiles said, tone stern, warring shakily. 

“Ah, Stiles. That’s where you’re wrong,” Peter said, now picking up a glass of fine wine from the table, fingers delicately gripping. He took a sip. The standing duo watched him, gazes narrowing. “It’s ‘what do _they_ want’ that’s the problem here.”

“‘They’?” Stiles said, anger simmering, emotions swimming into the pools of confusion. He turned to Derek with questioning eyes.

“The Alpha Pack,” Derek said gruffly, mood souring considerably at the thought. 

Stiles looked at Derek, who had gone silent, to Peter on the couch, smile dangerous and low. He tapped fingers on his side, jittery, the other hand reaching up to his hair, skating through the messy strands.

“The Alpha Pack,” he echoed, muttering, going up to a vacant chair near the work table and dumping himself onto his familiar blue roller chair. Derek tried not to let the tinge of warmth show on his outside at the gesture. A small fire leapt at the thought of Stiles resuming his old roller chair, the one he’d so often used in the past while here. It smelt right. 

“I don’t even want to know what the hell that means,” Stiles groaned, slumped in his roller chair, turning it on its flexible axis to face the two werewolves in the room. “They stink of trouble.”

Derek nodded, agreeing. 

“Did you call me here to help, then? Supernatural research stuff?” Stiles sighed, spinning the chair side to side absently, “Can’t promise anything but I’ll do what I can.”

“Seeing as how we’re inviting rabid starving dogs with a tasty treat,” Peter said lightly, eyes glinting and accusing, “the help will be much appreciated. The treat, of course, being yourself truly, if you must know." 

Derek glared daggers at the Peter. “Don’t." 

“Derek,” Peter interrupted smoothly, “Do you have something absolutely _essential_ to tell little Stiles here? You know, vital to his, and concurrently, our survival?” 

The address was painfully obvious, the question mark heavy and laden in the suddenly smothering air. Stiles glanced back at Derek with questioning eyes, his face pulled taut with discomfort. The thudding of the boy’s heart was speeding up, panicky now.

Derek detested Peter with an intense ache. He really did.

“Derek,” Stiles said, the voice slightly strangled now, “What the hell is he saying? What are you not telling me?”

Silence descended upon the room, sparking with heavy-loaded tension. Derek’s anger became increasingly evident, as was Peter’s irritation. Derek didn’t want to do this to Stiles, not like this: in the living room of his loft, an obnoxious uncle on his couch, Stiles pale and gripping the edges of his blue roller-chair. Derek let out a pent-up breath of frustration, opened his mouth to say something when Peter interrupted again.

“I know it isn’t easy, Derek, what with your intensely uncomfortable and absolutely unnecessary attachment to human boy toy there,” Peter said, tilting his head. Stiles flinched at the term, face twisting bitterly, but he remained silent. “But it’s better for us to break his little spirit _now,_ ” Peter’s serious blue eyes gleaming, wine glass placed firmly on the table top, tone trying to be convincing, “then collect whatever that is left of him after the Alpha Pack.“

Derek could taste Stiles’ stress in the air, deafening as it was. 

“Get out,” Derek said in between gritted teeth. Peter raised his brow at the words.

“Excuse me?”

“Get. Out.” 

Peter’s face contorted in a flash of anger for a second before smoothing back to a facade of calm. “Fine,” he said, standing up, “Seeing as I’m the only sensible, intelligent being here, I hope you do the right thing even in my absence. If you don’t manage to, just give me a call and I’ll be making my way of out of Beacon Hills for an indefinite amount of time, thank you.”

Footsteps thudding on the floorboards as he reached the door. 

“Oh, and one more thing,” he paused, saying, “You might want to check out the other little one heavily involved in the whole mess. That one’s already half-mad, you see, not much else for the Alpha Pack to break,” Peter laughed, amused, before he closed the door to the loft with a loud, resounding clang.

Derek took a breath and turned to Stiles.

============0=============

“I want to tell you a story, Stiles,” Derek managed. They were seated on the couch, Derek’s cups of prepared hot tea in both their hands, soothing their nerves. Stiles had Derek’s sweater on him, the sleeves long and soft, the texture comforting. He blew on the surface of the hot tea, above where the tea bag had sunk to the depths of the liquid. He watched the swirls of hot steam waft from the top, curling in the air and then dissipate into nothingness. He wished he was steam, sometimes.

Stiles brought his head up to look into Derek’s eyes, saw the struggle warring within to continue talking, to explain. He grabbed the warm cup tightly in cold, clammy hands, felt the emanated heat seep into his hands. It helped some. Gave him enough strength to nod his assent. 

“There was a she-wolf, a long time ago. Her name was Suri.” Derek began, eyes on drifting onto his own hot tea. He settled back into the couch beside Stiles where the boy was curled up, knees to his chest. “She was Turned at fourteen, joined the local wolf pack because of it.” 

Stiles sipped at the tea. He didn’t know what Derek was trying to say with the story, or how this was related to himself, to the Alpha Pack, but he gave in to the lull of those sea-green eyes, the lull of that soothing voice.

“I don’t really know the details. No one really knows. All the lore said was that at some point, her pack was challenged by other rival packs, and that she had emerged out of the whole mess as a sole survivor with an alpha status.” Derek cast sombre eyes at his tea at the thought. 

“What happened next?” Stiles asked, eyes burning at the intensity of the story, about the fate of this mysterious Suri figure. He wrapped set the cup on the table softly, snuggled into Derek’s sweater, settling himself comfortably for what he felt was going to be a long story.

“She fled,” Derek continued, “Bloodied, injured and feral with madness and rage, she fled to the only relative she knew: her human blood brother Vadim. He was a small leader of a local town, then. He busied with food stocks, whipped up verbal peace agreements, divided land, planned transport routes… All the works,” Derek shrugged, “But he’d always kept in touch with Suri, even after she Turned. He took her in immediately, sheltered her.”

“Oh no,” Stiles said, grimacing, “I can see where this is going. Shit’s going to hit the proverbial ceiling fan soon, right? Let me guess: Suri rampages the town by accident, Vadim is blamed and lynched by angry archaic-thinking hunters with pitchforks, the town is left decimated and dead eventually because of a dark plague anyway.”

“Not quite,” Derek said, huffing a laugh at Stiles’ wild imagination, “In fact, nothing happened for a month. Suri integrated into the town council, helped with the crop planning, local disputes, set up merchant stalls. They did okay with what they had to work with.”

“And then,” Stiles smiled playfully, booming aloud in a low, narrator voice, trying to keep the atmosphere light. He paused longer than needed for the intended dramatic effect, “the Full Moon arrived.” He waggled his fingers exaggeratedly in the air.

Derek wanted to smile, wanted to huff exasperatedly, rub his hand into Stiles’ hair and roll his eyes. Instead, Derek felt a sombre feeling overcome him, a heaviness tugging in his chest. Stiles stilled when he realised there was no expected response to his words. He bit his lip nervously, glancing at Derek.

“You’re right,” Derek finally choked out, “but it was a Perigee Moon, Stiles.”

He felt Stiles’ freeze icy cold beside him, the warmth closing off from his face, watched the bright lifeblood of his eyes recede into a plaguing darkness. 

“Never being borne a Wolf, or never having ascended into the role of an alpha, Suri hadn’t known at all. And her brother had been the closest living breathing being around,” Derek looked to the floor, closed his eyes. He could feel Stiles fading away beside him into a moonless void, eyes faraway. 

“Stiles,” Derek surged on, “do you remember what I told you that night in the hospital?”

The hunched figure beside him nodded numbly, warmth no longer in his chest. “Mating Bond,” he whispered, rasped, like the words were dirtied and forbidden on his lips, his tongue. Stiles looked so empty, so hollow, like he was far away, someplace where Derek couldn’t reach.

“Yes,” Derek said, voice quiet now, swallowing at how such beautiful words had been ruined for Stiles, just within the span of a night.“A Mating Bond cannot exist between individuals who are not emotionally involved. The Moon will not give her favour.” 

“Hair pure as snow, eyes red as blood.”

“What?” Derek said, flinching at the disturbing imagery. He gripped the couch’s edge, creaks filling the air. “Stiles?”

The boy brought his head up, looked into Derek’s worried gaze. “Finish the story.” The werewolf stilled, reluctant, but— “Please, Derek.”

“Vadim had always been ready for rogue werewolves to encroach upon their town ever since Suri’s arrival. He was careful,” Derek shifted uncomfortably as Stiles cast tired eyes onto his tea cup, “he’d gathered wolfsbane lethal enough to kill. But when Suri attacked, Vadim was trapped. He was human against the might of an alpha. He didn’t stand a chance.”

“But… Vadim was a smart man,” Derek retreated into the story, determined to retell it to completion, “While Suri was feasting on his blood, the Mate Claim already made, he managed to shoot her in the heart. He escaped into the crop fields, stayed far away. The next morning, he found her dead in his room, eyes glazed over.”

Stiles was shaking now, the violence in the words flashing unwanted memories in his brain. He clenched his eyes shut, beckoned for Derek to continue.

“The Mating Bond between them had never gone to completion, it was—“

“Fragmented,” Stiles finished, whispering, voice rasping, eyes opening. He huffed a bitter breath of laughter. 

Derek nodded. “It didn’t leave, either. A Mating Bond can only be undone under a Perigee Moon with an unbinding ritual. She wasn’t alive to do that for him, and so he was stuck with the residual fragmented Mate Bond, and its Mate Claim.”

“And that’s where our story comes in, Stiles.”

A bitter laugh. “Are you saying I have that, too? That I’m sick or something?” Anger in his voice now, clouding over the hurt. “Why a fragmented bond? Why didn’t they just form a full Mating Bond, if the Moon wanted the hell out of it so fucking much? Why leave the pieces stranded in the middle—“

“Because it wasn’t consensual, Stiles,” Derek intervened softly, and Stiles choked at the words, at the implications of them. He turned away from Derek, heart burning as if alit by searing lava. “Because when even just one of the two emotionally involved individuals do not desire the bond, it will never enter completion.”

Silence. Cold, like ice culminating deep in his heart over Stiles’ shadowed face, the long fingers curling over the sweater. The air was still, but internally Derek felt violent quakes exploding around him, his world crumbling down as he scented Stiles’ tears in the air. Like so many times before, the scent spoke of sadness, pain, anger, _fear_.

Derek felt his heart hurt, pulsing bright-sharp with the knowledge of Stiles’ agony. With Stiles turned away from him all he could see was the small back. He wished he could wrap arms around that hurt form, could bring him to a better, happier place, could protect him from the darkness of the world. He was swamped with a cavernous grief, the boy beside him small, curled up into a fetal position, the spikes of the world still hurting him now, even when he had nothing more left to give. 

“The Ma—” Derek’s voice cracked, and he cleared it softly, regaining composure, “The Mating Bond is when two individuals bind the themselves to one another indefinitely. Their souls, their hearts, their love, and their bodies.”

The silent scent of Stiles’ tears in the air was prominent now, the drops sinking into the couch as they landed.

“What happens in a fragmented bond is that there exists only a single binding, from an alpha to its partner. Vadim was open, vulnerable. His scent became rich, heady, even, to other werewolves around him. With a single binding left to complete from his side to an alpha he was slowly going mad, drifting, guilt over his sister’s death also tormenting him. He was susceptible to other Alphas’ manipulations, for them to trick him into a Mating Bond of their own. Once he gave his consent, he was—“

“I don’t want to hear anymore, Derek.” The voice was cracked, wet. “ _Please._ ”

A fissure snapping open in Derek’s heart, the edges of the spilt brittle, echoing Stiles’ hot tears. He nodded, eyes uncontrollably pooling, realised Stiles wasn’t looking at him, hadn’t been looking at him. 

“Okay,” he whispered instead, a thousand apologies trapped in a lump in his throat, hands wanting to touch the fading child in front of him, to make sure he wouldn’t suddenly wither away. He didn’t have that privilege, though. Not after hurting him so much.

“I’m leaving,” Stiles said hoarsely soon after, standing up shakily. He still didn’t turn to face Derek. 

Derek doubted he could.

He watched quietly as Stiles reached the door of the loft, opened it. He still didn’t say a thing as the head of soft brown locks disappeared with a deafening thud. 

============0=============

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my friends... So just a disclaimer: there will be so, so many loopholes in the whole lore and plot by the end of the story I can't even. Hence: I apologise in advance for terrible story-plotting. *gulps* Some things will be explained, and some not, and I am so, so sorry for that. I was (and am) so invested in scouring out the emotional capacity of the characters that the validity of the plot/story is a little skewed, so I sincerely apologise. One such flaw was the whole "Stiles should've Turned" thing, which was something that (fun fact) was planned to actually happen in the original, unrevised story. BUT. Removing Stiles' humanity BROKE MY HEART. *whimpers in corner whilst bawling into used tissues* I couldn't do it. There was a scene I was (trying very hard) to write in Chapter 2 that depicts Stiles' struggle with losing one of the most integral elements of his identity: namely, his humanhood, so to speak. And that scene left me so drained and hollowed out that I scraped it immediately. 
> 
> Then again, there left the dilemma whether or not to alter the events of Chapter One, which I considered. But the bite had a LOT of significance, now and in later parts of the story, which I hated to remove. 
> 
> So I *hides under shields from incoming rocks* glossed over that whole thing, and I AM TRULY SORRY FOR THE CONFUSION. *sobs in coffee mug*
> 
> Anyhoo. Thank you all so much for all the support thus far; it's been so amazing to see the feedback. (I will definitely answer all your beautiful comments when I obtain the time needed to do so.)
> 
> *showers everyone with apologies and warm hugs*


	8. Scrape

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shorter than my usual chapters, and will remain as a standalone chapter with such length. The reason for this is because this chapter echoes very deeply my personal experience and emotions at a (once) very difficult point of my life, and holds much meaning for me as a writer, a person, and as a human being in terms of moving on. I've grown so much from that previous point, and this chapter is not only a triumph for me, but a reflection. I've found much strength, and have grown so much; this is my way of looking back and counting my victories. 
> 
> Warning: the following chapter contains acts of self-harm that can be very triggery for some. Please proceed with utmost care if you choose to do so. 
> 
> *gives out hot marshmallows and warm blankets*

* * *

The night is darkening round me,  
The wild winds coldly blow  
But a tyrant spell has bound me,  
And I cannot, cannot go.

The giant trees are bending  
Their bare boughs weighed with snow;  
The storm is fast descending,  
And yet I cannot go.

Clouds beyond clouds above me,  
Wastes beyond wastes below;  
But nothing drear can move me;  
I will not, cannot go.

\- Emily Brontë -

* * *

Stiles dreamt of him, sometimes. The warm chocolate eyes alit, the radiant smile, lacrosse stick in hand, excited voice shouting his name — _“Stiles!”_ — and them side by side, walking along school corridors, or in adjacent classroom seats, whispering to each other. The ridges of the dreams were comforting, familiar. He cherished those, brought them to a little box at the back of his head, kept them there.

He also retracted from dark places whenever he could. Dark shadows and jarring shudders, claws ripping up his thin soft human layers, blood blooming to the surface, pain flooding his senses like oceans of salt water crashing into his lungs, so full they pooled over orifices, dripping out of his body.

It took him some time to realise that it wasn’t the pain that stung, that inked scars into his heart, but those warm-blood eyes gazing into his soul. Hands that used to rub affectionately into his hair, his head, arms that used to wrap around his body, soothing. Hands that grappled with his own, laughter bursting forth into the air, mischief tickling their noses. Those very hands were the ones he dreamt of, the ones plagued in shadows and blood and darkness.

Some faded, muted and pleading thing in Stiles refused to link the two —hands that soothed and hands that hurt— but when his brain, the logic-fuelled organ, stepped in, things often blurred. He hated that, hated that his brain seemed completely disinterested in maintaining a semblance of his sanity intact, propelled him to face a harsh blind truth that would break him into shattered bones and blood, eradicate any memory of the hands that soothed, the ones he embraced and loved.

He missed him. The warmth of brown startlingly present and consoling, wiping away the pulsing fears shivering in the pits of his stomach.

 _“Bro, my mom’s not going to be home tonight. Meet you at school, midnight? You’ll get Coach’s April Fools’ present, right?” A light laughter, and accompanying childish snorts. “Can’t_ wait _, dude!”_

He clenched his eyes, body shaking wildly with the panic attack, intermittent anxiety narrowing his vision into dots and whirls of black, his heart galloping and skipping beats like it was sputtering into silence. No, no. Those words, that voice. They were only echoes, memories.

_“I don’t know, Stiles.” A hesitant pause, an embarrassed laugh as a blush rushed through the tips of his ears, “I think I love her.”_

Stiles’ fists gripped the sheets, a sob rising from his chest. So familiar, so close, he could almost taste the memory, the instance. The face appeared in his head once again, the dimpled smile tugging at tattered heart strings.

_“Stiles? You’re fine, it’s okay. Hey, I got you right here. Breathe, buddy. You’re alright now. I’m here.”_

Stiles was unravelling in the dark, eyes unseeing, heart aching.

 _But you’re not,_ he thought bitterly, _You’re not here right now._

The tears leaked softly from his eyes. They were there so often now that Stiles didn’t bother wiping them away. He just stared at the lit walls of his bathroom, and thought of what-ifs and had-beens. This was the longest he'd been away from those tender brown eyes, the soft voice, the longest he’d been away from the one brother he’d ever known, and had ever come to accept and love.

_It’s all your fault._

Stiles flinched into the cold tiles of his bathroom, the truth of it scouring through him, hollowing the insides out. He absently watched the cool metal knife in his hands, at the razor edges that gleamed maliciously in the darkness of his mind. Maybe placing it into his skin would solve everything, would dig out the sin and the dirt clogged up underneath the veneer of smooth skin.

With appropriate pressure, he pressed the edge of blade into the green, blue, purple veins bobbing on his wrist, stilling into numbness, and watched the blood bead and flow from his skin. It scoured his mind out completely, leaving only blankness. Relief immediately flooded him as pain burst bright and clear in his mind’s eye.

It was _beautiful_ ; red rivers of sludge pooling and exiting his body. It felt redeeming, cleansing, like he was finally washing himself for the first time. He shuddered with the feeling.

He recalled the time he smashed the bathroom mirror in the hospital, how he watched the rivulets of blood travel from blood-rich tubes onto white pristine floor. He had been entranced then, too. Now, as he watched blood bead up furiously, vigorously alive, he felt an odd thought slither into his head. Maybe the ruby life substance in him was recompensing for his dwindling emotions, making up for the dead flesh inside the body, rising up onto his skin to clean him.

Maybe it was there to help him feel alive.

The air around him stilled, his mind completely blank of turmoil. It was the closest to peace he’d ever felt. Everything faded away; the heat behind his eyes buzzed a familiar warmth, his arms were shaking, the thick liquid running quickly, pooling on the floor. Its strong rich colour juxtaposed against the paleness of his skin perfectly, flowing like drop plunders in a waterfall rapidly hitting the waterbed. His vision started to blur in and out, greys creeping into his line of sight, muddying the world. Beneath him, the chill of the bathroom tiles against his skin waned away, dribbling into a peaceful river. His thoughts no longer coalesce into angry, painful, loud tumultuous things. They merely drowned into an ocean of quiet, of soundless serenity. He sat at the bottom of an vastly immense ocean, grounded by the blood in his veins pooling around him.

He looked around, blinked into wet darkness. He could be happy here.

He could stay.

He remembered the white room, thought about the calm he’d built there, once. Maybe he could return. Maybe if he would just pressure the blade slightly deeper—

“Stiles!” A panicked voice cutting across everything, shattering the calm. Stiles felt the first inkling of emotion —confusion— bubbling from the surface. Where he had been sitting on the bottom of a deep, deep ocean, eyes closed, he was now being pulled from its depths, plunging abruptly into air, the dirt immediately slinking onto his skin. Confusion and stabs of displeasure at the interruption of his well-earned peace stirred within him. He emerged from a well inside him raw, like a babe forcefully awakened from a deep slumber. Everything prickled and stabbed inks of pain. His eyes burned sharply and brightly, adjusting against the blurriness he’d almost gotten used to.

He numbly registered the thudding of feet from outside the locked bathroom, and then a loud, earth-shaking bang as someone busted through the toilet door.

A blurry form of Isaac appeared in front of him, eyes wide with panic. 

Flickers of horror and pain entered his eyes as he took in Stiles pale and curled up in the corner of the bathroom, knife and wrists coated and warm with lifeblood. Flustered hands reached forward to pull the knife quickly out of Stiles’ loosening grip, unworried of the slippery red around them.

Long and warm arms wounded tight around him, around his shoulders. Skin touching skin, pulling the pain, the earned numbing feelings, away. Stiles jerked violently, struggling in the grip, thumping wildly, eyes scorching. No! He needed _this_ , needed the numbness the pain gifted to him, the blankness and peace the wetness on his skin bestowed. Couldn’t Isaac see? It was _cleaning_ him, inside out, scraping the hollow shell. The ocean was washing away his sins, the dirt on his skin, his ugly heart. It was _purifying_ him.

At his struggles, Isaac reluctantly let go, eyes still wide and pained.

“Stiles… Please. Let us help you.” The beta’s voice curled with hurt, fanning with tinges of disbelief. Stiles had always been an anchor, a pillar of strength and intellect. None of them had ever seen him like this, pathetically grabbing for the knife in Isaac’s hands, eyes pooling over with desperation, forearms bleeding over so thickly with blood that they were stained entirely red.

“Stiles!” Isaac shouted, heart pounding with a towering ache, hands wrenching the knife he was holding away from pale, clammy hands. With a strong fling, he threw the thing out of the bathroom, away from reach. Stiles’ pale face stilled into horror, hands still weakly struggling forward.

He shouted incoherently, screaming hoarsely in frustration, trying to push past Isaac but too weak and light-headed to fight the strong werewolf arms pulling him back onto the blood-slick floor. Eventually, Stiles slumped into the tight, gripping hug the beta gave, hot and desperate tears welling up in his eyes. The hurt and grime inside him was coming back again, rapidly filling up the gaps of his being, scalding open wounds.

He felt like an ugly, ugly thing.

“Please, Isaac…” Stiles rasped, pleaded, eyes unseeing and blurred over with wetness. “ _Please_! I need this!”

Isaac buried his face into the hollow of Stiles’ neck, tightly clenching the weakening body, large tendrils of pain seeping into his skin from Stiles. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Don’t do this!” Isaac’s large frame was now racking with dry panicked sobs, with worried, gasping things that shook Stiles’ own body, “God, you don’t have to! _We’re_ here. We’ll always be here for you! Please stay _here_ , Stiles. Stay here with _us_. Don’t go.”

Isaac shook his head, eyes clenched tightly close.

“Don’t _leave_.”

Stiles blinked, a numb hand travelling up into shaky curled locks of hair. The pain was now gaping wide and expanding inside him, and he longed for the knife again, _itched_ , because it was so _easy_ —had been so easy—, just a deeper nick, a little more pressure…

and the whole world would fade away.

“Isaac…” Stiles exhaled, eyes red and tired, the world darkening into scarlet and sin once again. He heaved now, guilt pouring over in drifts of rain, resigned to the constant sludge destined to stay lodged within him, building. He didn’t have the stamina to fight the lithe werewolf clinging tightly onto him.

They remained on the tiled floor for a time, breathing in bursts against each other; Stiles weakly, and Isaac shakily. Fabric and skin rubbed painfully into the cuts, staining the surfaces red. The floor was slippery with Stiles’ blood, the ruby stark and harsh against the fair white of the floor, of his fair skin. Isaac didn’t open his eyes, couldn’t. He didn’t want to meet a lifeless gaze, didn’t want to confront the ocean of blood colouring the once-pristine tiles a frightening red, didn’t want to see the tears shredding Stiles apart fusing into the smell of agony and hurt in the blood-scented air.

“I’m sorry,” was all Stiles said eventually, breaths weak and soft and so very _young_ against Isaac’s own chest. The form he was holding onto was small and vulnerable, curled up like the world was banging too harshly against it. It echoed memories Isaac had when he was younger: him huddling into cramped, unbreathable spaces against painful, panicked cries.

Isaac clenched around Stiles in a tighter grip, pulling him closer, hearing through fabric and cracked skin a fragile heartbeat that had threatened to cease. He couldn’t stop trembling from the stark fear that Stiles could have departed indefinitely from this world, could have left them. Would have actually _died_ —a lifeless pale  corpse flashed in his mind’s eye— because they hadn’t tried hard enough. Hadn’t sought to protect him enough.

“Not your fault, Stiles,” Isaac moaned wetly, emotionally drained, breathing in Stiles alive and warm around him, reassuring him that a pack mate, a friend, a brother, of his had not disappeared, was still _here_. Not strong and regal and bright with life but at least still present, still barely holding on.

“Never been your fault,” he said, tone urgent, trying to convince.

Stiles sighed into the brown curls of hair tickling his face. He didn’t say a thing back because it wasn't true.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are involved in acts of self-harming, know that as someone who has been in that endless cycle of alluring comfort, I understand why you feel the necessity to do so. 
> 
> But know this (and I arrive from a place of understanding and empathy when I say this): the comfort is short-lived. Life has much more to offer apart from distractions like physical pain. Seek as much medical care as you need, and take time for yourself to rest and regain the mental capacity to overcome the overwhelming need to give in to self-harm, should you need to. 
> 
> Sorry for the rambling, I'm wishing the best of luck and fortunes to anyone out there who desperately needs it. Know you are not alone in your pain. 
> 
> *gives out warm hugs and soft pillows*  
> (comments are also my love and lifeblood)


	9. Reversal

“She wasn’t doing a thing that I could see, except standing there leaning on the balcony railing, holding the universe together.”

—J. D. Salinger, “A Girl I Knew”

* * *

“Come on,” Isaac nudged gently, meeting dull and lifeless eyes no longer warring with desperation. The boy beside him nodded slowly, lips parting weakly as if to speak, then closing shut again. A well of ascending bitter laughter rose up from the depths of his being, resonating starkly within the once-immaculate bathroom. It was a tired, painful song, a dry and broken sound. Isaac flinched. Stiles’ body crumpled in his arms, going lax as tension spooled entirely out of his shell. He felt almost weightless.

The werewolf heaved Stiles’ body up —light as a feather, he was—, the bend of his elbows delicately cradling the backs of Stiles’ knees and back separately, pulling the body as close to his chest as physically possible. Isaac liked to imagine he could hear a strong and unwavering pulse, but all he could hear was a glass-heart beating and shattering each time it contracted, threatening to break. 

Stiles was looking at nothing now, eyes shifting to gaze into the distance, dulled and unseeing. Isaac tightened his grip, convincing himself of life that still remained, that the broken in his arms was breathing. 

“Hold on tight, Stiles,” Isaac whispered feather-like, a small lump in his throat swallowing the bulk of his grief into an assimilated pool of hurt. He stepped over the slippery ruby skating across the floor —blood—, and walked out of the door to the window. He had to find medical assistance for the blood running down Stiles’ arms, because there was nothing much else he knew how to heal. He couldn’t take away all of Stiles’ pain like he suddenly wished he could. 

He stepped into the torrent of wind, a series of cascades that swallowed them.

And… if he felt Stiles gripping back a little more tightly at the words, fingers digging meaningfully into the front of his shirt, clenching bright white with tension, Isaac did not breathe a word of it to anyone else. 

============0============

Emotions warred like lightning storms within him. He was so tired, his bones weighing years beyond his age. He jumped between moods of overpowering fear and exhaustion, electricity travelling through his veins in bursts of thumping energy. Somehow, he had forgotten the taste of sunlight on his skin, the bubbling feelings of peace or joy, the safety of _Pack_. He was a lone shadow now, a caricature figure of what others had expected of him.

Scott looked in the mirror, and saw a monster.

A monster wrapped up nicely in human skin, ignoring the noticeable tears of the human suit. Muddy blobs of black carelessly oozing out of his pores, coating the outer surface. Brown, caked blood mockingly colouring tendrils across his skin. Inside, a fiery red creature that burned blindingly bright, threatening to shred, to claw, to _ache_ , burning off the entirety of his world. 

Lust, desire, dominance, prey… His Wolf crouched low, eyes wild and scorching, claws longing to sink into flesh and draw sweet blood. His fur rippled, stood on sharp ends, jaw clicking and calculating, like it ached to wrench wide and drown into prey. Scott trembled from the might of his desire pouring forth from within, to claim, to _take_. It felt like withholding a nuclear surge inside of himself, his body a mere fragile thing compared to the well of darkness pulsating madly and constantly. 

His head felt like it was bursting apart, ripping between animal and human.

Weakly, he looked to the thick iron chains wrapped firmly around his ankle and wrists. It had never occurred to him what day, or time it was anymore. He lost time consistently, morphing between Man and Wolf: his Wolf prowling the tattered floors of his room, his Human often laying weakly on the floorboards, contemplating the position of his existence. 

Scott looked dazedly to the ceiling, laughed bitterly to himself. Wasn’t it humorous that his thoughts always oscillated between his beastliness and…

He bit his lip, felt the desire surging up wildly inside him even from the thought of it.

Stiles never left his mind. Both Man and Wolf longed for him in different ways, but longed for him all the same. Scott wished that his friend would magically materialise in front of him, would grin and tell him Knock Knock jokes till he laughed away his problems. Would sit cross-legged out of reach, huffing and running his hands through his hair in frustration, shooting Scott less than subtle I-told-you glares, twirling a baseball bat in his hands because he was a “breakable fragile human”, when he was anything but. Scott huffed softly at the memory. Stiles would think of a solution, would whip out the sheriff’s walkie talkie and his laptop and blink at it for hours until he figured out a way to resolve all their problems.

He’d always had. 

But what was Scott to do when they were now both part of the problem? One the monster and the other the victim of that monster. What now?

Scott rubbed his eyes into his forearm, exhaled because he’d been through this so many times in his head. Stiles wasn’t here now. He was hurt, and probably furious. All Scott wanted was to make amends, to do something, _anything_ , because he was an uncontrollable monster and all Stiles had ever been was a best friend who’d put in his everything to protect Scott. 

He hadn’t deserved that. Scott would have done anything to take it all back, to return to the beginning, when it was just them both: youthful boys tracking fields and laughing under bright skies. 

But his Wolf surged forth, burning through the memory like acrid acid, colouring it deep scarlet.

Now all he saw was darkness; black abyss stretching throughout his vision, blood raining down everywhere he went. A pale trembling figure in the corner, unclothed, vulnerable, hunched over, back facing Scott. Elegant shoulder blades forming dents in the fair skin, shoulders of a boy growing into a man. The soft, dark locks of hair atop his head, the lines of his back firm and familiar, smelling like home and flames. That scent that hit like a freight train, bursting with flavour. Scott could’ve scented him miles away.

“Stiles!” Scott called out, hollered, eyes squinting in the darkness, hands reaching out as if to touch. 

The figure turned his head back to the call—

Eyes. Eyes encompassing the wells of the sky and beyond, grieving depths dark like the expanse of the universe. Lashes framing the sorrowful edges of those eyes, thick like ink, fanning out beautifully against skin. Parted lips, surprised; lips the Wolf wanted to tear at with its own and _consume_. 

And then, flesh. Flesh everywhere, like a feast, a buffet spread out, luxuriant. Scott’s teeth elongated, itching to sink long canines into all the vulnerable inviting softness, like knife to butter, wanting to _claim…_

_…_

Scott heard the human screams too late. He had already ripped his meal apart, had already drank blood before he even registered a person underneath all the enticing blood, flesh and bone, which was all Stiles had been to him as he wrestled innards of Stiles’ soul from its shell. There was no concept of humanity, of morality, of a consciousness within the meal he was chasing. 

And even so, he was still _ravenous_. Hungry. So hungry. Stiles. More wine-blood on his tongue like sin spreading through his veins. Lips. Eyes. Bright burning heart. More. Need _more._ More screams. More flesh. More Stiles—

A double knock rattling him out of his fantasies. 

Scott blinked into the dim lighting of his room, wrenched back to reality abruptly. He looked around, reabsorbing details of his surroundings, then reached down to check the strength of the chains circling his ankles and wrists. He’d faded in and out of reality again, fed into a constant loop of dream and want. It happened so often that he no longer felt panicked by it.

A repeated knock once again, this time faster-paced and tinged with impatience.

Scott’s head whipped up, scrambled by the lack of scent emanating from under the door. It was puzzling, and a small voice within him whispered the need to fear an odourless enemy, but it was quickly quietened down by the roaring noises pounding against his brain. He sniffed at the air carelessly, then leaned his forehead face first against the wall beside him, the column of his throat and the back of his neck throbbing oddly as they bunched at the strain.

Whoever it was, a hunter, a creature, a human… Scott had no more energy left to respond, to worry or be alarmed. There were only Stiles, the _want_ , and the guilt. He had no more left to give. All he needed to do was waste away here where he had entrapped himself from others. It was laughable, that he was going like this: exhausted and half mad out of his mind from guilt and desire and loneliness, chained to the ground like the dog he was, the dirt he’d always been. 

BANG! The door slammed open in a torrent of violence, wrenched from its hinges, flying sideways. A useless piece of wood. Scott closed his eyes, breathed deep. He wasn't sure if the presence was real —he doubted it, for his mind was no longer quite sane; his senses muddied and uncontrolled beyond belief—, but if it was, it didn’t bother him immensely. He lost time frequently, drifted on faint winds. He was too weak to fight back, to bother really.

He kept his eyes closed, forehead leaning against the wall, back slumped in equal parts exhaustion and defeat. Controlled breathing sounded from behind him, and his Wolf began an ascending growl from deep within its throat at the invasion, but Scott remained silent and unmoving. Somewhere deep inside him, an odd fear leapt to its feet at the possibility that it was an imaginary figure of Stiles, that the depth of his longing had conjured up yet another echo for his Wolf to ultimately murder and consume. 

Sometimes, deep into the ravines of monstrous nights, he would taste Stiles’ flesh on the buds of his tongue, would remember swallowing — _devouring_ beautiful, unblemished skin—, the sensation simultaneously pleasing and horrifying…

“My, what a pretty sight,” a curling voice. Scott didn’t move, didn’t open his eyes, as the voice rattled oddly in his ears, unused as they were to actual voices. 

“Don’t look like much now, do you?”

Scott slowly opened his eyes, a stir of familiarity blinking in his mind. He knew that voice. He’d know that voice anywhere. A crease on his forehead, the frown forming slowly as recognition flickered dully. Of course it would be him. He could hear the gloating undertones from where he sat, metal bands feeling like they were seared permanently to his skin. Of course. Of all the people on the planet—

“Quiet, and running, tail between two feet, I see,” The voice muttered, commenting lightly, disinterested. The footsteps were light as the figure walked forwards, approaching, hands lightly brushing over items as it passed. Scott could hear the soft thuds as contact was made. It was strangely grating on his nerves. “Look at all our hopes and dreams, dashed into the pathetic form I now see before me,” he continued. “Not much of an investment after all, are you? Our great and mighty True Alpha? Maybe—”

“Go away,” Scott’s voice was rust; raspy and clogged, low and snarly like that of an injured animal’s. It wasn’t too inaccurate of an representation: an injured animal. He was too tired to flare up, too exhausted to let angry boil his blood like the once hot-headed youth he’d been. Now there were only dust and dreary smoke-fumes left on his trodden path. The flames that lit lowly in the pit of his gut were solely that of simmering and unwanted desire. 

“Oh?” A polite laugh, one that could have been melted in synthetics, ringing in his ears, “Is this the way you treat a guest?” 

Scott did not deign to answer the rhetorical question. He sat silent and still, willed intensely for the outsider to remove himself from Scott’s personal space. He didn’t need to hear useless drivel—

“I’m appalled. What’s it like now, Scott, to sit here and wallow in your own self-pity,” the voice paused, revving up its agitation as it scoffed at the sight before it like it was dirt —with which Scott would wholly agree— “leaving everyone else to meld your broken things back together? Leaving everyone else to clean your, if you will excuse my language, _shit_ up? Myself included as a party dragged into this.”

The figure bent down, squatting, levelling his gaze with Scott’s. Scott pretended he didn’t flinch. 

Blue, flashing eyes, wild and feral and glowing.

Peter seemed more visibly and dangerously calm now, collected even as a seemingly innocuous smile began to grace his lips. “If you would _only_ kindly refrain from indulging incessantly in your pity party and start doing _something_ for a change, well,” he grinned, canines sharp and gleaming in the soft light, “maybe we wouldn’t be in this sorry mess.”

He stood up, cutting away from eye contact, leaving Scott dizzy. Peter quietly tapped the baseball bat sitting quietly on the side of his desk, swiftly moved on to the picture of Allison by his bedside table, knowing eyes flashing. His gait was strong and confident as he moved to stand in front of Scott, who still remained crouching against the wall. 

“Mementos?” Peter purred, razor-edged claws curling around the bat, mockingly cradling it. He cocked his head. “So much sentiment for a beast like yourself.”

Scott hung his head low. He now heard more than felt the shrug of shoulders above him.

“I should just kill you right now where you lay,” he growled low, considering, smile playful, “I’ll bet Derek wouldn’t mind, would he now? And my morality’s always been,” he laughed darkly, “a little bit skewed, if you will. _I_ won’t mind a single bit of what I may attempt to do next.”

Scott’s head whipped up at that, eyes flashing bright with surprise, turning to the figure now standing by the bed. His lungs stopped, parched tongue rough against the palate of his mouth. He could feel the chill of the chains against his wrists, his ankles as if it were sinking through his skin into his blood, running them icy-cold like the dropping of his heart. 

It was strange that he feared death so, even as he had willed himself slowly towards it.

Peter’s eyes glinted at the reaction, predatory gaze unveiling itself smoothly. A wide array of teeth as he grinned, feral, eyes promptly flashing.

Scott’s eyes traced Peter’s unwavering gaze. It was abundantly clear who was now prey.

“Ah, what a sharp rise in heartbeat. Pitter-patter pitter-patter like a sewer rat’s. Is that _fear_ I hear…?” Peter stood, turned to walk around the room like a predator stalking prey, rattling on, “You’re not going to defend yourself at least? Just going to sit there and take it like a good little pet?”

A scoff of disbelief and disappointment as Scott didn’t rise to the challenge.

“Then maybe…” The pause drew upon Scott’s attention, his eyes catching onto Peter’s, “I should kill Stiles too.”

_Fury._

“All our problems would be solved,” A snap of fingers, ringing loudly against Scott’s increasingly ragged breathing, “Just. Like. That.”

_Fury like no other._

“Rip out his pretty little throat first. Respectfully spare him the consequential agony from having to be murdered by others, you see.” The voice was mockingly polite. 

Scott didn’t enough have time to question the protective and dominant emotion plunging and crashing into him like an ocean’s might. He only felt the changes evolving within him, the Wolf roaring and snapping from the confines it had been held in. Wild scarlet eyes, a deep growling travelling from his gut on instinct, claws ripping out from Scott’s skin ready to tear into Peter’s heart. He was furious, both him and his Wolf ready to rip through Peter’s innards for challenging him, for threatening _his._

_HIS._

“Ah, how cute,” the older continued, waving his arms about nonchalantly, eyes in juxtaposition calm and collected and having no reaction to Scott’s visible outrage. His voice was gliding and level like he was discussing the weather, even as he carefully eyed Scott’s own beastly gaze, “I now see you have strength to actually muster up your anger, not for yourself, oh no, _that_ one’s a lost cause. But for Stiles?” A laugh. “Of course.”

Scott felt his canines elongating, red-hot stones steaming and roiling in him, readying to burst. Fury demanding a swift, sweet and painful decimation, clenching and lashing madly in his chest, waiting to unravel. There were flashes and sparks in his vision. 

“What do you think, Scott?” Peter said, pulling the consonants of his name as he enunciated it, “Let’s have your best friend pay for your little Wolfy transgressions, shall we? Because that _scent_ of his. God. I’d kill for that. Literally.”

CLANG.

The chains breaking apart like butter with the force Scott’s Wolf tugged on it. Swift pulls so hard he felt like his shoulders were smashing themselves inside out from the pressure. 

But he now had his wrists free. 

“ _Yes_ , Scott,” Peter hissed, blue eyes flashing luminescent like electricity buzzing beneath dense and thunderous storm clouds soaring overhead; they gleamed beyond the brightness of sunlight, and into the arrays of blinding brilliance, shaking Scott to the core with an emotion chilling to the marrow. 

“Get _angry_. Because if I don’t do the deed, Scott, the _Alpha Pack_ certainly will. They’ve already heard the rumours, are already on our doorsteps. Your utterly idiotic amateur mistake has led a whole pack of Alphas to Beacon Hills in search of prey, and I sure as hell am not letting you sit here and die a pathetic death without even paying a _drip_ for your faults.”

Confusion now mixing in with the savagery and wrath pumping through Scott’s veins. A melting pot warring in his heart, grazing his bones with lava and salt and dirt. Words numbly registering as peculiar but unimportant sounds in his head, his being thumping and pounding with the rhythm of his heart; an organ suddenly alive and deafening, overriding all sense. 

But. A single strike in the words knocking his anger a few notches off its feet. 

_Alpha pack?_

“Yes,” Peter snapped with irritation, the insult following the word left unsaid, “Alpha pack. A group of alphas. Here. To kill us, along with your noisy friends. Now will you _get up_?”

He knelt beside Scott, the mood in the air swiftly changing. It was strangely calm. Peter seemed to have shifted to a perpetual brisk air about him, swiftly undoing the chains binding his ankles from the pipes in the walls. Scott, dumbfounded, and tightly reigning back the slowly muting anger and adrenaline setting his blood aflame, was particularly bewildered.

Why? 

A roll of eyes. “Now that you’ve regained a minute semblance of sense and stepped a foot out of teenage suicide I have no time for your slow, disoriented, dehydrated uptake. None. Zero. Nought.” A hand on his wrist, and Scott looked up to peer into a face clouded with utmost annoyance, now devoid of any of the mockery and threats that were once there. “We’re going now, Scott. You’re coming with me for an _extended_ amount of time.”

What? Where?

A temporary rustle of clothing as Peter reached behind his back to retrieve—

“Oh look, I brought an idiot-cure for you. It will, only momentarily, I regret to say, render you completely bearable while I clean up your metaphorical defecation.”

A long spindly metal cylinder, colourless liquid sloshing around within, a thin sharp elongated metal needle adorned on top. 

A sharp prick in his arm.

(Darkness.)

============0============

Peter didn’t abide to conventional narratives very well. Nor rules. He’d always knew in a traditional story setting he would be the narcissistic, chauvinistic and hollow-driven ‘evil’ destined to be a second follow-up to a larger than life, more morally accountable, sweet-looking protagonist counterpart. It was natural to him to blend into shadows and highlight the blinding lights of the heroes by providing a stark contrast. It was justifiable to himself, even. He never was a bad guy though. Never thought of himself as one. Except maybe when he was occasionally —almost always, really— hungering for power. But then again that didn’t seem too far of a stretch to him. In fact, it sounded perfectly logical.

It honestly never bothered him, the ‘baddie’ image; cheap, but surprisingly accurate at times. Selfish, rather than the selfless. Cunning, rather than being honest. He liked to think he’d take his odds with being on the dark side in every alternate timeline he could theoretically reach, because being the good guy protagonist sounded illogical and idiotic, to say the least. 

And he was never illogical. Never.

He’d argued he was half-mad out of his mind when he went on a —highly obvious and not at all intelligent— murder rampage, but even then his motivations had been justifiable: vengeance. 

See? He wasn’t that _complicated_ of a guy. 

It was true he wasn’t always loyal. Loyalty meant stupidity, sometimes, which he avoided at all costs. It made others doubt him, made others distrust him, something he was completely agreeable to. He wouldn’t bet any one cent on trusting himself, either.

But. 

It didn’t mean he didn’t love his family. He loathed to admit sentiment, _weakness_ , but he had it. (Huge shocker to the general public, he knew, but it was true.) It had been cultivated within him from birth, the notion of pack a root of his person. It was an integral part of him, even as he was sly and constantly conniving, treading confident footsteps into shades of greys and blacks as a teenager, leading others onto less-than-pure paths. Even then, well, he loved his family.

He shuddered. Merely thinking of the word made his skin crawl.

But at least that explained the whole vengeance fiasco he was still embarrassed of, of course, it having been so badly planned out and executed. What could he say? He did the best with what he had at the time. No changing that now.

So. Wasn’t it interesting just how reality, similar to himself, failed to abide by the frameworks of a conventional narrative? 

That he, the supposed antagonist, the character whom children threw rocks at in the day and feared when nights reigned, was dragging an ignorant, childish, uncontrollable True Alpha —who Peter had previously acknowledged as the protagonist of the particular narrative he was involved in— into his apartment in the middle of the god damned night, trying to, in a very questionable way, save his life?

Honestly, the irony.

Peter blew air out through his mouth, groaned into the crisp night air. He knew he should have just killed the kid. 

He could have, in the correct order, inherited the alpha powers (maybe, maybe not, who knew with a True Alpha?), jumped town, and hid in safety away from the pack of Alphas salivating after idiotic kids he didn’t give two shits about, not in this lifetime. 

He would done _that_ in a heartbeat, except then…

_Derek_ would be doomed. His imbecile nephew, the stupid dull-witted pup. Always had been, always will be.

In point of fact: Stiles would be permanently vulnerable without a living Scott to undo the bond, and Derek would never skip town with Peter into the confines of very logical safety, thank you very much, would never think about the odds of _survivability_ over his stupid god damned crush on the Stilinski kid, who would be a domed ticket by then. Or, less importantly but still rather important on Derek’s list: the protection of a town now turned into a beacon for dangerous, uncaring Supernaturals because of said idiotic kids. 

Peter held back a sigh. He earnestly needed more intelligent individuals in his existence. He really did. 

He looked to the alpha lying unconscious on his couch as he sat slumped in the chair beside it. It had been raining again; the weather was a relentless beast, what with all the wind and rain and general soddenness on everyone’s part. And if Peter had, on his way here, not-so-accidentally dropped Scott to the hard ground a couple of times due to the slippery slip of the rain… well. At least it satisfied a bit of his vindictive tendencies. 

Stupid kid and his stupid troubles and idiotic Derek and his utterly insane and idiotic crush on the one human boy all the alphas in the vicinity now _lusted_ over and this stupid idiotic kid on his couch taking up his space and his privacy and hours of his supposed healthy and lengthy lifespan. 

Peter wanted to kick his couch —kick aforementioned kid’s _face_ —, but it would be a childish act that wasted strength, time and energy. He wasn’t _childish_. His _primary_ functions denied him to be anything but.

Still. It was tempting. 

Very.

============0============

Peter knew something was up when the kid started to slowly pale and stink of rot and death. Maybe it meant the fates above was agreeing with Peter silently: the kid had to go, no matter how hard he’d tried. And that would have been absolutely and fantastically _wonderful_ —once less mindless soul on the face of a sad planet—, except then all the _effort_ he’d taken to actually _save_ the stupid kid would have gone to waste, which he would never allow. 

Sometimes he irritated himself, too.

Peter rose to his feet, watchful. Through the windowpanes he noticed lightning striking brightly and furiously, echoing his mood. He cursed silently under his breath, a distasteful habit, he knew, but also an uncontrollable one. So much for his attempts at propriety. 

He walked into the dimly lit kitchen, refilled a cup with tap water, walked back into the darkened living room. Scott wasn’t entitled to anything but his tap water. _Small victories_ , he reminded himself, as he grabbed Scott’s jaw, pulling it open carelessly, and pouring the liquid down his throat.

A few seconds in and Scott started coughing incessantly, weakly choking on the water pushing against his throat awaiting entry. Peter ignored it, rolling his eyes, forced the whole cup of liquid down his throat even as the kid spluttered some up. How wasteful.

Not that Scott was aware enough to acknowledge it.

Peter repeated the dull action, bone-tired from an eventful day, this time making sure to tip the cup nearer to parched lips so that less of the water would travel the wrong direction upwards onto his beautiful couch. He grimaced as he absent-mindedly grabbed the side of Scott’s face, and tilted the cup into his mouth. This time, Scott, disoriented and dehydrated as he was, mindlessly swallowed until the cup was empty.

The once-unconscious Scott blinked into the darkness for a while, and muttered a groggy “thanks” as he was done, before falling back into unconsciousness.

Silence descended once again, as Peter stilled in the quiet, body rigid. He shuddered, skin crawling absurdly as the word ricocheted in his brain, echoing slowly.

“Don’t do that,” he muttered, grimacing. He settled into the chair beside the couch, completely weirded out. 

“That’s positively cringe-worthy.”

============0============

The journey there was a wild blurry thing, padded feet pounding onto roads, claws occasionally scraping the concrete, tail moving up and down, balancing the length of Derek’s body, the smell of Stiles’ blood continuing to register alarms within his heightened senses, the _volume_ of it, the _richness_ of it, the worry pounding ridiculously booming and deafening within the confines of his smaller wolf-form, the scent of _StilesStilesStiles_ and the boy’s increasingly loud fevered breathing from a distance away. 

His nose felt like it was drenched with blood, and his mind erupting with images: Isaac and his wide panicked eyes beckoning Derek forward to explain, only to eventually find himself slammed against the wall facing a furious Alpha, rumblings of words spewing from his beta’s mouth — _Stiles, hurt_ were the only two he needed—, a roar as he Changed, bones bending and breaking and bending again as he jumped out the window onto concrete roads, the thumping of his heart banging in his ears like it was about to _explode_ —

Stiles.

Stiles.

Why wasn’t he there, why did he let him go? Why didn’t he grab his wrist and pull him back and enshroud Stiles within the confines of his body, melt skin into skin so he would be forever safe? Forever laughing and teasing and wrinkling the sides of his eyes in the manner that made Derek’s heart go aflutter? Why didn’t he pull Stiles back and spill the unending apologies from the lump struck in his throat, the lump that formed the torrent of grief in Derek’s eyes? 

They could have left —could still leave—. Derek could bring him away (fuck the ugly world), could travel depths through the Earth’s core to a mantle undefeatable, where they could stow away for the rest of their lives. Could cuddle up with breakfasts and bad TV and overused puns. Could go for long walks and ice-cream parlour dates. Could wrap Stiles in his arms and kiss his heart through the layers of skin in his chest because then they’d be melded together as one, two souls connected, souls intertwined within a soft and embracing moonlight and all he needed to do was—

Derek paused in his footsteps, the thumps slowing down.

All he needed to do was… 

No. He’d never. He’d never force that —his feelings, his desires— on Stiles. Not like Scott, he had enough control, he wouldn’t hurt, of all the people he treasured, Stiles, he couldn’t, he wouldn’t he—

Would he?

He could, couldn’t he?

He—

============0============

Stiles noticed the details first, eyes searing and sore within the holes in his head. Sharp aches that travelled the length of his arms like railway tracks spinning through haphazardly. Soft sheets underneath him, a warm comforter pulled up to his shoulders. White ceiling. Familiar. Machinery on the tables, barks and mewling in the distance… Ah, Deaton’s office. A soft pressure to his right, a presence breathing; a head of blonde, arms pooled together as a temporary support for her head, eyes closed shut. 

Erica.

He pushed away the feelings of disappointment in his chest (no… he hadn’t… secretly hoped for a head of black, and soft green eyes… had he?). He didn’t give himself a chance to reevaluate the dropping of his gut, shaking his head as he quietly shifted in his bed, which woke the beta from her slumber. Blurry eyes registered quickly.

“Hey,” she said softly, faintly, voice sleep-rusted. 

“Hey,” Stiles replied hoarsely, exhausted. 

He didn’t say anything else after, allowed Erica to carefully manipulate his limbs around so the beta could re-patch him up with antiseptic and cotton drapes. The silence wrapped around them, echoing the odd reverse positions they were in: Erica treating Stiles’ wounds instead of Stiles treating Erica’s. In another world, months before The Incident, it had often been the lively young human in front of the beta that did the patching-up work for others, lamenting the blood that pooled into his plaid shirt even as quick hands worked to bandage up cuts and pop dislocated bones. With his attitude and tone nonchalant, confident —“Gee, did you _purposely_ run headfirst into the sharp bits?— only his eyes would betray him, clouding over with worry as he looked over injuries. 

The pack constantly getting injured had been the only reason why Stiles coerced himself to be self-taught in open wounds, broken bones, fractures, torn ligaments and muscles. Staying up nights to pore over materials a medical student would need and delving into the Internet to medical sites and studies to learn about the nature of various injuries, large or small. He’d come to understand the depth of knife wounds, whether it was close to a major artery, or if a bone had been fractured or broken. 

Now, as Erica gently rewrapped long strips of bandages around Stiles’ forearms, watching the leaking blood oozing from deep wounds, she felt a gut-wrenching pain spreading through her. How could have they been so blind, so oblivious? Of course he hadn’t been fine, even though he’d appeared to be. Of course he wasn’t getting better, how could anyone recover so fast, so swiftly?

She piled the heaps of soft comforters over Stiles, adjusting them properly to cover his body, arms bandaged with large rectangular cotton pads. Stiles’ childhood pillow was also placed near him so he could draw in the scent to sleep, a small sentiment on Erica’s part. 

Stiles’ knowing eyes continued to silently trail Erica’s as she tucked him to bed. She knew she ought to be bursting with questions, with anger, with whys and how could yous, but she was oddly detached, only felt a quiet sense of calm in the small space of Deaton’s office. 

Not that she hadn’t rushed down like her life depended on it when she heard the news. (They all did.) But it was strange she didn’t lament Stiles, didn’t blame him, although some awful part of her felt like she should, like it was Stiles’ fault he couldn’t be strong enough for all of them and the world beyond. That it was his fault that he was humanly enough to break under the weight of a cruel universe. 

Instead, she wanted to tell Stiles how much she loved him as a Pack mate, as family, as a friend, as a crush, even, once upon a long time ago. Wanted to affirm her love for him, that he was needed on the face of an already broken and crappy world. That she was sorry that the Fates were inhuman and barbaric mistresses, determined to crush a soul so pure and brimming with life. That she loved him, and didn’t he love them too? Enough to stay on this bleak, black speck of an Earth to endure through the contradictions and expectations and seemingly insurmountable blockades of life together with them? With her? 

“I’ll stay,” was all Erica managed to say instead, the flood of words stuck in her throat and swelling against a strong and choking dam. She patted Stiles’ head softly, resisting the urge to cradle Stiles into her arms.

Stiles looked into her eyes, the gaze never leaving, and looked like he saw the words of her throat there, screaming at him with a thousand cries. His eyes welled up with understanding, brimming slightly, and Erica never stopped carefully caressing his hair, willing whatever strength in her blood to be his, ceaselessly hoping it was be enough, enough for him to hold on just a while longer. Because she would treasure whatever she could get right now; like Stiles’ faint heartbeat thumping softly in her ears, ringing rhythmically through her blood.

“Erica—“

“Shh…” hands sifting through the locks of his head, soothing, “shh… sleep, Stiles.” 

It was easier this way: to let the words locked between them accumulating like a bursting swelling organ fall away into the dredges of sleep, touching peacefully onto the ground.

Stiles nodded, heart aching and twisting, and let his eyes fall close.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, my heart goes out to anyone who is going through hard times, and hopefully you too will realise how much people around you, even strangers like me, feel for you. You will always be needed on this Earth, never forget that. 
> 
> Ramblings aside, sorry for the long wait, it's been a hectic few months! I did awesome with my national examinations, but am now swamped with work and university applications. I'll try my best with updates, but there will be no guarantees. I am absolutely in love with the story, so no worries about its completion; I'll finish it one day even if it takes me a long, long time. I can't imagine leaving Stiles hurt without any form of catharsis or healing... The thought is beyond my imagination. 
> 
> So fret not, my friends. I've been thinking of reducing the usual chapter word counts (6000, currently) to increase updates as well, any thoughts on this? The format will be slightly different, of course, but it won't affect the narrative all too much, and it gives me more feedback with each update too, which sounds absolutely awesome.
> 
> Also, I LOVE writing Peter, he's such a hilariously snarky bastard. And I'm quite nervous about Derek's emotional dilemma (eek) and Stiles' emotional instability... *hugs them both tightly* 
> 
> *gives out warm marshmallows and warm blankets*
> 
> P.S. Comments are my love and lifeblood


	10. Deliberation

"As he paces in cramped circles, over and over,  
the movement of his powerful soft strides  
is like a ritual dance around a center  
in which a mighty will stands paralyzed"

The Panther, Rainer Maria Rilke

* * *

 

“Good morning, sunshine.”

A sweet saccharine voice, littered with the edges of mockery.

Scott blinked awake blearily, eyes catching flashes of bright, searing light in his face. His body ached with a passion, creaking and burning dully, muscles and tendons stretching painfully in odd angles and movements. His limbs were numbed and heavy, his mouth parched and acrid, tasteless like sand. The world spun in jerky circles, pulsing and pressing tightly against his skin. Scott groaned deep in his throat, and a scratchy, low sound erupted instead. He pressed the palms of his hands onto his eyelids, shutting sensitive eyes away from the dazzle.

His heartbeat thudded and moaned like it was rebooting its systems, grinding away slowly at rust and dust. It was maddening how hard it was to concentrate.

“I see our Sleeping Beauty has risen.”

The voice didn’t help things. It was loud and blaring to his ears, powerful like bursts of energy slamming directly into his face. He’d never felt so terrible before. Hangovers couldn’t even hold a candle to the rotting reboot his body was trying to begin. Heck, he felt like a eighty-year-old engine revving up for the first time.

He groaned again, the sound subsiding into a soft painful moan.

A hand roughly handling him to lay on his side, then upwards to a sitting position.

“Scott, do you know what I’m allergic to apart from stupidity?” A voice coloured with irritation and disgust, the supporting hand leaving as soon as it held him up. Scott opened his eyes, taking in vague details for the first time: a sleek couch beneath his body; black, a kitchen counter to his front, an island in the middle, all polished and furnished to a sophisticated glamour. An unimpressed, hovering presence to his side.

An apartment? But wasn’t he—

“Oh yes, inefficiency. A trait you possess in abundance.”  
Scott turned to his side, blinking and shaking his head, bringing Peter in focus. A pair of startlingly intense blue orbs sparking back at him, unflinching in the least. A predatory gaze with teeth sharp enough to tear through steel, razor-edge and clicking menacingly.

“And, unsurprisingly, the benevolent Fates have granted you both obtuseness and incompetency. A lot more of the former, I’m afraid.”

“You—”

“Yes,” a sigh drawn from Peter’s chest, expression fading into a exasperated roll of eyes, “me.” He rose fluidly and soundlessly from where he was seated on the armchair, walking long strides into the kitchen like an unamused cat. He whipped out a clear glass, the cutting streamlined, and placed it on the kitchen counter with an audible clicking sound. Scott watched him quietly as he tilted a dark-tinged bottle against the crystalware, filling the glass.

It was confusing that Peter was lounging with his glass silently, swirling it as he took intermittent sips. Scott breathed slowly on the couch, blinked harder into the harshness of his sensory surroundings, and watched Peter lean on the counter, eyes gazing pointedly at him.

Wait…

Was that wine? Scott squinted, eyes refocusing like a drunkard. The imprinted elegant numbers ‘1902’ on the darkened bottle seemed to suggest it. So. He was on Peter Hale’s couch, watching said person drinking his wine. The one man who tried to kill him and his friends, the figure who’d Turned him into a werewolf.

 _That_ guy.

The bizarre quality of it disturbed him.

“You’re…” Scott shook his head, disbelief at his situation seeping little by little in him, “actually drinking.” Here. Now. Like it was another casual Friday night.

A bark of feigned laughter, “Oh, _no_ , Scott, I’m just _soaking_ my gums in liquid.” A steamy glare sent Scott’s way, hands gripping slightly more tightly onto the glassware, “What did you think I was doing?”

A strained intake of breath on Peter’s part. He walked back to his armchair, sitting back down on its surface, positioning his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands together, fingers interlacing. He hung his head and closed his eyes, rubbing the pads of his thumbs against his forehead. Scott didn’t fail to notice how jittery the other man was, pacing around as he was, the polished movements veiling nerves and wafting irritation. That Scott could sense, even without Peter vocalising his displeasure.

“Look,” he started, never once looking at Scott, “I detest you, you don’t like me. We’ve established that.”

Scott nodded slowly, pressing fingers against his temples in an odd mimicry of Peter’s motions. Two parties exasperated by the other. Or at least, one confused, the other exasperated.

“So, what am I doing here?” Scott questioned, the words pouring out of his mouth through all the sensations his body was trying to accept and readjust to. It was disorienting —the floor quite slightly dizzying and blurry underneath his feet, Peter’s form most often than not obscured and out of view— but he was improving, his body adapting to the sights and sounds. His sight no longer had black spots filtering in and out, spreading like dappled ripples across his eyes.

“I don—,” a halt, then a defeated, tired sigh, uncharacteristic of Peter.

_I don’t know._

Scott felt the bristles travelling along the length of Peter’s spine, a tense prickling heat. “It’s not like there exists a guidebook for dealing with a pack of Alphas trying to decimate your pack, okay? I need time to think, to formulate a semblance of a plan, but that’s exactly what we’re missing: time. Hell,” he huffed, laughing bitterly, “I wouldn’t be surprised if the Alpha Pack’s already gotten to Stiles by now.”

Scott’s heart burned at the words, straining in its confines as it picked up rapidly, that same feeling of fury revving its simmer in his veins. An odd but familiar surge pouring forth through the chalk hollows of his bones, echoing a lasting ache of both desire and anger. Scott clenched his teeth, willed canines not to elongate naturally from itching gums, suppressed the instinctual need to _claw_ into flesh, into the menace threatening _his_ —

“Calm down,” Peter slowly lifted his head up at the change in mood, eyes already expectant, lips twisting wryly. He clasped fingers together. “Soothe your Wolf; its feral tendencies are not going helping our case.”

Scott’s eyes flashed discontinuously between flashes of ruby and brown, a glow beating and soaring sporadically along with his frantic and erratic heartbeat. He bit his lip.

“It’s hard.”

Peter scoffed. “Isn’t going to be the most difficult thing around for a while. More so than your absolute absence of control, we have a whole pack of vicious, skilled killers to handle.” He looked up directly into Scott’s eyes. “Your suicidal teenage self will have to deal, or at least, wait. The situation demands for now that we need you alive.”

Silence. Scott’s eyes muted, Peter’s bright.

“How’s he?” A soft, muted voice rising into the tense atmosphere moments later. Peter turned to the younger, eyes questioning now, brow furrowed. Scott’s head was hung low, gaze to the floor, eyes far away, shoulders holding a faint tremor now that Peter looked closely.

“Who,” Peter snapped, fingers twitching with vexation, mind running. They both knew, of course, but an odd and vindictive urge in Peter awoke like a beast stirring, fire burning its steam like a burst of star. He wanted Scott to say it himself: Stiles’ name.

Imploring brown eyes rising to meet his, gaze running and grimy like black ink, its depths flooding with a grief moonless and dusky as an ocean bed, empty and void of breath. Peter held back surprise from coating the edges of his expression, let a stone cold mask slip across the front of his face, deflecting any emotion from the inside of himself. All he allowed was a deep and endless well of apathy and detachment to surge forth.

Brown eyes that usually translated a thickheadedness Peter would never be able to comprehend now were open holes and swirling vortexes, emptiness and muddied guilt.

“Stiles.” Soft as a whisper, grainy like a sound arising from the back of a television box from the sixties, whirring mechanically. Peter didn’t want to sink into the vertical drop of pity, didn’t want to _emote_. He wasn’t _that_ character, he didn’t wear the right puppet strings in their little theatre play, wasn't nowhere near a figure of compassion, and yet.

And yet.

Yet he could see in those guilt-ridden eyes the eyes of a boy he’d sat next to long before, glass-green eyes pouring forth an ocean of agony pulsating madly, sin like lava searing through his young soul. A young teen crying in his arms, frame shaking. “I killed her, I killed her,” he’d chanted, body shuddering like a seizure ripping apart his cells, the core of his being.

_Derek._

Another mindless young soul once so filled with the goodness for a godforsaken world, now dry and drained and older. Peter swallowed back the gush of memory assaulting him, reigning back the height of his emotion. He didn’t —want to— have the capacity to feel pity, _compassion_ —

“It’s complicated,” was all he could offer eventually, tone neutral.

A drop in the air like a free fall plunge, hurtling downwards into dusk. An empty husk hollowed out beside him, hopes washing out.

“Look,” Peter redirected Scott’s attention, an odd twisting sensation building in his chest. He swatted at it internally with derision.

“I—“ Scott began, but Peter cut him off abruptly.

“We’re going to _fix_ this,” _Or die trying, in any case,_ he thought to himself. “ _Then_ , we can start hating each other again, and you can soak in your own filth in an unsanitised room for the rest of eternity, yes?”

Peter ignored the hope slowly beginning to spark faintly in wide, wandering brown eyes, an oddly uncomfortable focus with which Scott had taken to his every word; like a bee to nectar. Ignored the clenching of —young— hands against a bloodied, matted shirt, the tremor within them. Ignored the way Scott quietened suddenly, sounds dulling to a muteness.

“Okay.”

============0=============

An unassuming, distinguished man, wrapped in a coal black collared shirt. Red tinted sunglasses, reflecting and bending what little light hit it. A long cane in his hand, spider-like fingers gripping its handle. A comfortable, yet striking gait, the wood of his cane tapping innocuously on the drenched pavement floor. He perpetuated a haunting air about him, strangely bone-chilling, echoes of cracked woods and slanted, crooked shadows whispering and gasping. Casting a sinister silhouette, his edges were sharp and gaunt, creaky and hollow.

A spindly hand, pale as death and ice, moving slowly, leisurely, towards the doors of the veterinary clinic, pressing into the clear glass, the flesh sinking white against it, waves of frigidness crawling.

Bells tinkling as the door swung open, as crashing sounds of downpour snaked into the silence of the clinic. The door swung itself closed behind its unearthly visitor.

Footsteps. Clack, clack, clack, as the man glided along marble, cane tapping in sickly, playful rhythm. He came to rest in front of the counter, coat slick with rain. Head lifting to unveil a devilish smirk, knowing eyes hidden behind tinted frames.

A flash of lightning, sparking against another figure, highlighting his outline momentarily before fading away. A veterinarian, adoring a plain work coat, who had come to greet the man.

“Alan,” the man greeted, voice fluid as silk, tipping his head.

“Deucalion,” the veterinarian replied, expression reserved. The darkness of the office flickered and streamed moonlight around them. A tense and unknowable pressure descended into the room, forceful and quiet. The unspoken words filtered tumultuously through the firm gazes they casted onto the other, slamming and crashing like torrents of an intangible mental sword fight, wills like fire and flint scorching, none shrivelling against the heat.

“Where’s the boy?” the man asked, tone light as a feather, twirling his cane about his hand.

“I suggest you leave. Don't make me insist.” No hesitation. Firm as steel as he replied the words, entirely disregarding the man’s question. Deucalion glanced to the ground, to the pitch, coal grains that littered the marble, scattered protectively against intruders. Mountain Ash.

A twisted, sleek chuckle erupting from within him.

“Let’s not play these _games_ , doctor,” he said, nodding to the protective circle, “the boy can’t hide forever. Not from someone like me: a soul obsessed with acquisition, with possession…”

“With _power_.”

“Leave,” The veterinarian said, stance unmoving, expression emotionless like that of marble sculptures, unblemished and polished to stone. Never once did he respond directly to the man’s words.

“Then… know _this_ , doctor: I am, if anything, proud and diabolical to the last detail. I _will_ acquire, no…” he paused, trailing off.

Ominous lightning traced across the skies, the rain storming madly beyond the doors, drowning the menacing whispered conversation. The man grinned, feral, canines razor-edge and already elongated in the mist of moonlight, bringing cadaverous digits together, tongue darting out to trace sensually along his lips, eyes flashing a bright uninhibited ruby.

“I will _own_ this boy.”

============0=============

Stiles heard voices slinking into his night. They covered light like wide bats; wings-spread ahead with shadows pooling around his feet. Choral, soft, wild points pulsated, sprinkling to life. They filled his ears with song, spinning and weaving within their limited confines.

The voices sang.

He craned his neck in the void of the world, and peered beyond caged bars into open night skies and blinking, blinking stars; unknown. In the darkness his mouth parted on a soft exhale, lips soft and trembling against the frigidness of a grating soundlessness. He blinked, once, a single dash of time, his lashes fanning, hands gentling. The voices were circling, wrapping silk and sound around his head.

He did not dare to open his eyes.

 _The stars are singing_ , he thought to himself, hands scraping the rugged ground as surely as those stars were soaring through the edges of his frayed soul. He flew through the air with them, travelling through the rents of indefinable spaces.

He was beyond.

The straw of the dirt-floor remained in silent waves on the ground around him, muddied and sodden, and he was afraid the voices would leave. He heaved a wet breath and imagined—

Warm eyes and the lulling cadence of a mother’s voice, singing. Rich locks of charcoal-brown spilling over her shoulders, tickling the tips of his nose. A fire-warmth as elongated arms pooled and sunk around his small shoulders, enveloping. Hands grasping tightly onto his, pulling him along a weary road-path to a small cottage house littered with clover scents and firewood. Her old dress cutting dents as they flowed down her legs, rubbing against his young shoulders.

An indescribable, intangible lava that grazed from inside him, welling over, as he peered into the petals of her eyes, the grace of her smile.

The voices were still singing his song of want, of love, into a hopelessly frigid wind that blasted through rusted steel bars into his pool of straw. _Devoid_ , he thought, glancing to the middle of his chest where a glass heart sat, _man of straw_.

============0=============

Stiles woke up to sunlight.

Pelt, fur in his hands. A smaller body breathing next to his side, an odd curling warmth.

Stiles stared at it for a good ten minutes, rubbed his eyes, and continued staring. His hand subconsciously reached out to touch trailing, gleaming softness, running through the beautiful coat. There was no gradient, no white and greys, only a star-night ink of black, a cascade of shade. The wolf was curled up on its side, feet and limbs cuddled into itself between its head and tail. Eyes closed, elegant slits leading forward to an arch with a moist snout, the length of jaw graceful. Ears, leaning upwards and out, were soft triangular points that were tucked back against its head, lax.

Stiles stilled, running hands through its fur, from its nape, down the curled back, ending just before the beginning of a bushy tail. So soft, so velvety, the texture beautifully comforting against his palms. He still couldn’t believe his eyes, brain reeling from surprise at the beauty of the creature before him, its regal features sharp but smooth in sleep.

It was considerably large, its unfurled length possibly Stiles’ height. He glanced at the form again, how it lay closely to Stiles’ own body, radiating a canine’s body heat; a simmering, breathing lull, akin to hands cupping a mug of hot steaming tea. It was nice.

He could feel its heartbeat thudding through to Stiles’ own skin, the organ pumping quicker than his own. A smaller body, with a louder heart drum, curled up tight by his side. So bunched up that its snout was gently touching its own tail-end, limbs and padded feet laying comfortable between.

Stiles didn’t know why he didn’t fear. He lay on his side, one arm supporting his head, the other ruffling through languid heat and fur, caressing the musculature beneath; the arches and bends wrapping around strong bones and organs. He felt life underneath tracing fingertips, lungs expanding and contracting within the smaller body, heart pulsing blood, air flowing through its small, pointed nose. It sniffed from time to time, blowing small puffs of air out against its tail as it shifted its head more comfortably against its own body. Stiles would in turn still his movements, would watch the creature —little, yet big, thing that it was— adjust, eyes never opening.

Beyond adorable, it was beautiful.

Stiles shifted his hand up towards its forehead, touching the fur there, then gently tapped its dampened nose. The wolf’s face curled up, tensing, before it let out a sneeze.

Stiles laughed.

The wolf opened its eyes, unveiling a startlingly green; reminiscent of blinking night stars fading in and out upon an horizon, a softness amidst a vast, unending expanse of sky, basking faintly. A glow that settled in juxtaposition against its coal dark pelt. Stiles gazed into its eyes, and saw mirrors of crystallised universes that stole his breath away.

The wolf was uncurling now, four limbs supporting itself as it stood, regal. Otherworldly eyes holding fascinated brown ones even as it arched a curve in its back, stretching stiff ligaments and muscles, tail elongated and unfurled. Stiles withdrew his hand back, allowing space, watching.

It wasn’t long after the stretching ritual before the wolf was pawing its way over, snout nudging his hand, his palm, eyes closing as it rubbed its own forehead against Stiles’ skin. Afterwards, it dropped its body to the bed once again, this time by Stiles’ front, this time snout leaning against its own front paws. As allowed, Stiles resumed his petting, running curious hands through fur, through perky ears occasionally twitching. He trailed hands to soft paws, gently holding one and caressing underneath where its foot pads lay, smiling at the odd roughness.

The wolf glanced up at him from where it lay its head, eyes soft, allowing Stiles to do as he pleased.

Only after a long while of touching —hands trailing through its stomach, the length of it, its bushy tail, its powerful hind legs— did Stiles finally still and carefully urged the wolf up. It abided with a huff of amusement.

Standing, its fur flared, extending slightly outwards along its neck. Fur glided to the sides, elegant to the streamlined form, made just so for thudding across wide forest fields, tail swaying for balance. It was also taller this way, so large Stiles had to adjust into a kneeling position so he wouldn’t be looking at it from a lower angle.

He leaned forward, wrapping arms around the lithe form —hugging the wolf—, rubbing his face into its soft, soft fur, nuzzling almost.

“Amazing,” Stiles breathed, rubbing his cheek against pelt. “I could stay here forever.”

A puff of air against his naked neck; an amused puff.

Stiles pulled back, gazing into its eyes. “Hey, thanks. I’ve always wanted to say that while hugging you, you know? Not that casual ‘cool thanks mate’ as we did before, but a heartfelt thank you. For um,” Stiles shrugged, “everything.”

The wolf stared at him, eyes blinking, as he continued.

“Sorry for acting up back at the loft, too,” Stiles licked his lips, the nervous gesture rising, voice softening into threadbare edges, vulnerability seeping through welts, “for smothering you all the time. For um,” his voice shook slightly, “being burdensome.”

The wolf leaned forward, padding across the bed a few steps, then rubbed the length of its neck against Stiles’, repeating the soothing motion. Nuzzling. Comforting.

Stiles relented the motion, basking in the warmth. He sat under fire warmth and pelt-soft fur, and stilled into as much peace as he dared indulge in.

“I know you’ve told me about this before in passing, but I’ve never had the chance to see it.” He smiled. “I’ve never had the daring to actually ask. And now, look at you. Taking the chance of me being all doped up with meds to fur-nuzzle me.”

The wolf blinked at him, leaned lightly into Stiles’ hands running through its fur as he rambled on, the drugs in his system slowing his thought processes, lulling.

“Unless, well, this is all a horrible misunderstanding and I’m actually just talking to Deaton’s new husky patient. _That_ would be awkward and mortifying.”

An long pause as gears whirled in his head.

“Oh.”

A laughter at his own silliness.

“Okay, didn’t think of that until now. If so,” Stiles leaned back to peer into an open-looking face, “it’ll be our little secret, okay? That I secretly kind of want to hug sour wolf paws, that I want to apologise but don’t really know how yet,” he whispered into the soft pointed ears, shaking his head at himself. “I’ll think of something eventually.”

“Maybe I’ll just write him a little card.”

The animal was now merely proceeding to sniff his shoulder, wet snout pushing skin at the curve of it, puffing out air from its nostrils periodically.

“Well, shit. I’m really beginning to think you’re some customer’s Siberian Husky,” Stiles ruffled the canine’s fur, scratching along its neck, “Identify transference, huh. I wonder where Derek went off to.”

Silence, with interrupting intermittent puffs of air at his shoulder.

A triple knock on the door, before it swung open. Two heads simultaneously whipping up at the sound. A head of brown curls popping through, an alarmed expression: Isaac. Perspiration beaded his forehead, the texture of his skin clammy and pale. He looked terrified.

“Erica,” he breathed out, gasping, trying to catch his breath. His grip on the door was tight, creaking the wood.

Stiles immediately let go of his friendly canine, brows already creasing, heart already picking up speed. “Isaac what—“

“What happened,” a familiar voice stated from just right behind Stiles, growly and rusty like it was unused, like it had just been awoken. He jerked from the suddenness of the sound, peering over his shoulder and oh, okay.

Derek freakin’ Hale. _Nude_.

Okay, so he _was_ that dog. God damn. Okay. Cool.

Stiles turned back to his front quickly. He would have spontaneously combusted of embarrassment if not for the urgency of the situation. If not for Isaac’s fear screaming, _blaring_ , loud across the room. He casted his focus to the trembling brunette at his front.

“Derek—“ Isaac continued.

“We’ll talk outside,” that growly sound again, low and rumbling.

 _What!_ Stiles thought incredulously, sounding that same opinion as soon as his vocal cords caught up with his brain: “What! No! Say it here, Isaac,” he said, tone firm. He turned back to peer into Derek’s unrelenting gaze, ignoring his nudity, “If Erica’s involved, I’m listening.”

Derek snarled, rigidity entering his entire body; fists gripping by his sides, muscles bunching at the tension, at the frustration against Stiles’ stubborn streak. Stiles pretended he didn’t instinctually flinch at the aggression —he wasn’t going to allow himself to be afraid of Derek the damn _Siberian Husky_ anytime soon—, merely stood resolute, glaring back at the stupid alpha. There was no discussion in this. Erica Reyes was his problem too.

“It has nothing to do with you, Stiles,” Derek said, glass forest eyes seemingly looking through to his thoughts, peering through the veils of Stiles’ mind. Derek gritted teeth as he seemed to slowly reigned back control over himself. “It’s too dangerous.”

Stiles frowned, folding his arms across his chest. “And listening to what Isaac has to say is dangerous how…?”

Derek inhaled a breath in, stared into Stiles’ eyes. “All this is none of your business. You’re _human_ , Stiles. You’re _not_ pack, you don’t have to meddle in our affairs anymore. It has never been anything to do with _you_.”

Oh.

A hurtful silence, Stiles reigning in the dropping of his heart into the pits of his gut.

He’d never thought Derek felt that way, felt he was cumbersome and in the way. Always thought that perhaps, maybe—

“Don’t you dare say that, Derek Hale,” Isaac intervened, cheeks now colouring with irritation, looking between the two like they were young toddlers wrestling over a ragged toy, “Don’t you dare lie to Stiles like that, not when he can’t hear the skipping of your heartbeat.”

Stiles looked to Derek questioningly, heart unclenching slowly, but all he could see was the back of his head as Derek turned away, jaw clicking in annoyance.

The room descended into a tight silence, wire-edged and almost unbreakable.

“We have no time for deliberating this,” Stiles eventually snapped, looking directly to Isaac, ignoring the discomfort of Derek’s glare consequently piercing into the back of his head, “You need to talk. Now.”

Isaac chanced a glance at Derek, then back to Stiles. He nodded.

“Erica, she’s… well, she’s _missing_.”

“Not missing,” Derek said, eyes beginning to flicker an ethereal, otherworldly glow, an ancient rage fuelling the storm of his gaze.

“Taken.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to all for the well wishes :) I did get into my university of choice, studying Environmental Earth System Sciences (if not that I would be taking Literature :D), but things have been incredibly hectic. University life is pretty suffocating, and with a mind block lodged heavily and fighting me every step of the way with this particular story, it just seemed too difficult to post a new chapter. This chapter wasn't very well planned, if I'm honest, but I'm hoping it will do, and that I will get past this road block to continue the rest of the story soon. Thank you to all for the supportive comments and kudos that have kept me going! I'll will be returning to this story very shortly and hopefully working on it until the end :)
> 
> Comments are love! Each and every one I receive, even while this story is in hiatus, makes my heart skip every time! Also, feel free to share what you think might happen in the story, and maybe hey it will give me more ideas on how to proceed, even :)
> 
> *gives out hot cocoa and marshmallows as bribery for comments with evil laughter in the background*
> 
> Also, I'm also simultaneously working on other projects in the Marvel fandom which I may post very soon, hopefully peeps here who are also in that fandom can give those works some <3 :)
> 
> P.S. Wolf Derek is seriously <3 too *laughs* *pats and snuggles into fur*


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